University  of  California  •  Berkeley 

From  the  Bequest 

of 
GLADYS  TILDEN 


POEMS 


BY 


WILLIAM    CULLEN    BRYANT. 


COLLECTED     AND     ARRANGED 


BY   THE   AUTHOR. 


NEW     YORK: 

D.    APPLETON    &    CO.,   549    &    551    BROADWAY. 

LONDON:    16  LITTLE  BRITAIN. 

1871. 


ENTERED,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1854,  by  W.  C.  BRYANT, 
in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the  South 
ern  District  of  New  York. 


ENTERED,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1871,  by  W.  C.  BRYANT, 
in  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


TO    THE    READER. 


THIS  edition  contains  several  of  the  author's  poems 
which  have  not  appeared  in  any  previous  collection.  These, 
as  well  as  the  others  in  the  volume,  have  been  made  to 
follow  each  other  in  the  order  in  which  they  were  written, 
•the  author  deeming  this  arrangement  to  be  quite  as  satis 
factory  to  the  reader  as  any  classification  founded  on  the 
nature  of  the  subjects  or  their  mode  of  treatment. 

NEW  YORK,  June,  1871. 


CONTENTS 


POEMS:  PACK 

The  Ages      . .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .n 

Thanatopsis  ........  23 

The  Yellow  Violet 25 

Inscription  for  the  Entrance  to  a  Wood  ....  27 

Song    ..........     28 

To  a  Waterfowl    ........  29 

Green  River   .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  •     3° 

A  Winter  Piece     ........          32 

The  West  Wind 36 

The  Burial-place. — A  Fragment  .....  37 

"  Blessed  are  they  that  Mourn "       .  .  .  .  .  .39 

"  No  Man  knoweth  his  Sepulchre "        .  .  .        ,„  .  40 

A  Walk  at  Sunset      .  .  .  .  .  .  .41 

Hymn  to  Death   ...  .....          43 

The  Massacre  at  Scio  .  .  .  .  .  .  .48 

The  Indian  Girl's  Lament  .  .  .  .  .  .49 

Ode  for  an  Agricultural  Celebration  .  .  .  .  .  .51 

Rizpah        .........          52 

The  Old  Man's  Funeral         .  .  .  .  .  .  .55 

The  Rivulet  ........  56 

March  ..........     59 

Consumption          .......  60 

An  Indian  Story         .  ....  .  .  .  .61 

Summer  Wind       .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .64 

An  Indian  at  the  Burial-place  of  his  Fathers  .  .  .  .65 

Song  .........  68 


6  CONTENTS 

POEMS  :  PACJJ 

Hymn  of  the  Waldenses         .  .'  .  .  .  .69 

Monument  Mountain        .......  70 

After  a  Tempest          .....  .     75 

Autumn  Woods    .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  76 

Mutation          .........     78 

November .........  79 

Song  of  the  Greek  Amazon    .  .  .  .  .  .  •     79 

To  a  Cloud  ........          81 

The  Murdered  Traveller        .  .  .  .  .  .82 

Hymn  to  the  North  Star  .  .  .  .  .  83 

The  Lapse  of  Time    ........    85 

Song  of  the  Stars  ........  87 

A  Forest  Hymn          ........    88 

"Oh  Fairest  of  the  Rural  Maids"  ...  92 

"  I  broke  the  Spell  that  held  me  long "        .  v  .  .  .93 

June 94 

A  Song  of  Pitcairn's  Island   .  .  .  .  .  .  -95 

The  Firmament     ........  97 

"I  cannot  forget  with  what  Fervid  Devotion"        .  .  .  .    99 

To  a  Mosquito      ........         loo 

Lines  on  Revisiting  the  Country       ......  102 

The  Death  of  the  Flowers  .  .  .  .  .  .104 

Romero  .........  105 

A  Meditation  on  Rhode  Island  Coal      .....         107 

The  New  Moon          .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  in 

October     .........         112 

The  Damsel  of  Peru  .  .  .  .  .  .  .112 

The  African  Chief  .  .  .  .  .  .  .114 

Spring  in  Town  ........  116 

The  Gladness  of  Nature  .  .  .  .  .  .  .118 

The  Disinterred  Warrior        .  .  .  .  .  .  .119 

Midsummer  ........         121 

The  Greek  Partisan    .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .121 

The  Two  Graves  ........         122 

The  Conjunction  of  Jupiter  and  Venus        ...  .  125 

A  Summer  Ramble  .......         128 

A  Scene  on  the  Banks  of  the  Hudson          .  .  .  .  .130 

The  Hurricane      ........         131 

WilHam  Tell .  .  133 

The  Hunter's  Serenade    ...  .  .  .  .  .134 


CONTENTS.  7 

POEMS :  PAGE 

The  Greek  Boy          ......  .136 

The  Past  .  .  .  .  .         J37 

"  Upon  the  Mountain's  Distant  Head "       .  .  .  *39 

The  Evening  Wind          .......         139 

"  When  the  Firmament  Quivers  with  Daylight's  Young  Beam  "  .  141 

"Innocent  Child  and  Snow-white  Flower"       .  .  .  .142 

To  the  River  Arve     ....  .  .  142 

To  Cole,  the  Painter,  departing  for  Europe       .  .  .         144 

To  the  Fringed  Gentian        .  .  .  .  .  .  .  144 

The  Twenty-second  of  December  .  .145 

Hymn  of  the  City       .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  i46 

The  Prairies          ........         147 

Song  of  Marion's  Men  .  ....  151 

The  Arctic  Lover  .......         153 

The  Journey  of  Life  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  *54 

TRANSLATIONS  : 

Version  of  a  Fragment  of  Simonides      .....         156 
From  the  Spanish  of  Villegas  ....  •  i£7 

Mary  Magdalen.     (From  the  Spanish  of  Bartolome'  Leonardo  de  Arge.i- 

sola) .158 

The  Life  of  the  Blessed.     (From  the  Spanish  of  Luis  Ponce  de  Leon)        159 
Fatima  and  Raduan.     (From  the  Spanish)  .  .  .  .160 

Love  and  Folly.     (From  La  Fontaine)  .  .  .  .  .162 

The  Siesta.     (From  the  Spanish)      ....  .163 

The  Alcayde  of  Molina.     (From  the  Spanish) .  .  .  .164 

The  Death  of  Aliatar.     (From  the  Spanish)  .  .  .  .165 

Love  in  the  Age  of  Chivalry.     (From  Peyre  Vidal,  the  Troubadour)          168 
The  Love  of  God.     (From  the  Provenjal  of  Bernard  Rascas)      .  .169 

From  the  Spanish  of  Pedro  de  Castro  y  Anaya  .  .  .170 

Sonnet.     (From  the  Portuguese  of  Semedo)  ....  171 

Song.     (From  the  Spanish  of  Iglesias)  .  .  .  .  .171 

The  Count  of  Greiers.     (From  the  German  of  Uhland)     .  .  .172 

The  Serenade.     (From  the  Spanish)       .  .  .  .  .174 

A  Northern  Legend.     (From  the  German  of  Uhland)       .  .  .176 

The  Paradise  of  Tears.     (From  the  German  of  N.  Miiller)     .  .         177 

The  Lady  of  Castle  Windeck.     (From  the  German  of  Chamisso)  .  178 

LATER  POEMS: 

To  the  Apennines  .  .  .  .  .  .  .181 

Earth  .  183 


8  CONTENTS. 

LATER  POEMS:  PAGE 

The  Knight's  Epitaph  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  i85 

The  Hunter  of  the  Prairies          ......         188 

Seventy-six     .........  190 

The  Living  Lost  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .         191 

Catterskill  Falls          .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .192 

The  Strange  Lady  .......         196 

Life .  .198 

"Earth's  Children  cleave  to  EartP,"      .....         200 

The  Hunter's  Vision  ........  201 

The  Green  Mountain  Coys          .  .  .        *   .  .  .         203 

A  Presentiment          ....  .  .  204 

The  Child's  Funeral 205 

The  Battle-field          .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .207 

The  Future  Life   .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .208 

The  Death  of  Schiller  .  .  .  .  .  .  .210 

The  Fountain        .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .211 

The  Winds     .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .215 

The  Old  Man's  Counsel  .......         218 

In  Memory  of  William  Leggett        ......  221 

An  Evening  Revery        .......         221 

The  Painted  Cup       .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .224 

A  Dream  .........         225 

The  Antiquity  of  Freedom    .  .  .  .  .  .227 

The  Maiden's  Sorrow      .......         229 

The  Return  of  Youth  .  .  .  .  .  .230 

A  Hymn  of  the  Sea         .......         232 

Noon.     (From  an  unfinished  Poem)  ...  .  234 

The  Crowded  Street        .......         236 

The  White-footed  Deer         .  .  .  .  .  .  .238 

The  Waning  Moon          .......         240 

The  Stream  of  Life    .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .242 

The  Unknown  Way     .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .243 

"Oh  Mother  of  a  Mighty  Race"      ......  244 

The  Land  of  Dreams       .......         246 

The  Burial  of  Love  ........  248 

The  May  Sun  sheds  an  Amber  Light    .....         249 

The  Voice  of  Autumn  .......  250 

The  Conqueror's  Grave  .......         252 

The  Planting  of  the  Apple-Tree       .  .  .  .  .  .254 

The  Snow-Shower  .  .  .  .  .  .  .257 


CONTENTS. 

LATER  POEMS: 

A  Rain  Dream  ....  ...  259 

Robert  of  Lincoln  ....  .262 

The  Twenty-seventh  of  March         .  .  .  .  264 

An  Invitation  to  the  Country      ......         266 

Song  for  New- Year's  Eve      .  .  .  .  •  •  •  267 

The  Wind  and  Stream    .  .  .  .         269 

The  Lost  Bird.— From  the  Spanish  of  Carolina  Coronado  .  .  270 

The  Night- Journey  of  a  River  ....  .271 

The  Life  that  Is  •  271 

Song.— "  These  Prairies  Glow  with  Flowers ".  .  .         276 

A  Sick-Bed      ....  •  277 

The  Song  of  the  Sower    .....  279 

The  New  and  the  Old  .  •  286 

The  Cloud  on  the  Way    .  .  .  .         287 

The  Tides -289 

Italy          .  .  ....        290 

A  Day  Dream  ....  •  •  293 

The  Ruins  of  Italica.— From  the  Spanish  of  Rioja      .  .  .295 

Waiting  by  the  Gate .  .  .  .  •  •  •  -298 

Not  Yet 3°o 

Our  Country's  Call 3°2 

The  Constellations  .  .  .  .  •  .  •          3°4 

The  Third  of  November,  1861          .  .  .  306 

The  Mother's  Hymn        ...  3°7 

Sclla .  .  308 

The  Fifth  Book  of  Homer's  Odyssey— -Translated      .  .        323 

The  Little  People  of  the  Snow          ....  .  34* 

The  Poet .352 

The  Path 354 

The  Return  of  the  Birds .  .  .  .  •  •         35^ 

"He  hath  put  all  Things  under  His  Feet"  .  .  •  .359 

My  Autumn  Walk 3&> 

Dante 362 

The  Death  of  Lincoln      ....•••         3^3 

The  Death  of  Slavery 3^4 

Hymn.— "Receive  thy  Sight"  .  ....         366 

A  Brighter  Day          .  ...  .3^7 

Among  the  Trees .  ..,...•         3^9 

May  Evening  ....••• 

NOTES 376 


POEMS. 


THE  AGES. 

i. 

WHEN  to.  the  common  rest  that  crowns  our  days, 
Called  in  the  noon  of  life,,  the  good  "man  goes, 
Or  full  of  years,  and  ripe,  in  wisdom,  lays 
His  silver  temples  in  their  last  repose; 
When,  o'er  the  buds  of  youth,  the  death-wind  blows 
And  blights  the  fairest ;  when  our  bitter  tears 
Stream,  as  the  eyes  of  those  that  love  us  close, 
We  think  on  what  they  were,  with  many  fears 
Lest  goodness  die  with  them,  and  leave  the  coming  years." 

II. 

And  therefore,  to  our  hearts,  the  days  gone  by, 
When  lived  the  honored  sage  whose  death  we  wept, 
And  the  soft  virtues  beamed  from  many  an  eye, 
And  beat  in  many  a  heart  that  long  has  slept — 
Like  spots  of  earth  where  angel-feet  have  stepped, 
Are  holy ;  and  high-dreaming  bards  have  told 
Of  times  when  worth  was  crowned,  and  faith  was  kept, 
Ere  friendship  grew  a  snare,  or  love  waxed  cold — 
Those  pure  and  happy  times — the  golden  days  of  old. 


1 2  POEMS. 

m. 

Peace  to  the  just  man's  memory;  let  it  grow 
Greener  with  years,  and  blossom  through  the  flight   , 
Of  ages;  let  the  mimic  canvas  show 
His  calm  benevolent  features ;  let  the  light 
Stream  on  his  deeds  of  love,  that  shunned  the  sight 
Of  all  but  heaven,  and  in  the  book  of  fame 
The  glorious  record  of  his  virtues  write 
And  hold  it  up  to  men,  and  bid  them  claim 
A  palm  like  his,  and  catch  from  him  the  hallowed  flame. 

IV. 

But  oh,  despair  not  of  their  fate  who  rise 
To  dwell  upon  the  earth  when  we  withdraw ! 
Lo !  the  same  shaft  by  which  the  righteous  dies, 
Strikes  through  the  wretch  that  scoffed  at  mercy's  law, 
And  trode  his  brethren  down,  and  felt  no  awe 
Of  Him  who  will  avenge  them.     Stainless  worth, 
Such  as  the  sternest  age  of  virtue  saw, 
Ripens,  meanwhile,  till  time  shall  call  it  forth 
From  the  low  modest  shade,  to  light  and  bless  the  earth. 


Has  Nature,  in  her  calm,  majestic  march, 
Faltered  with  age  at  last  ?  does  the  bright  sun 
Grow  dim  in  heaven  ?  or,  in  their  far  blue  arch, 
Sparkle  the  crowd  of  stars,  when  day  is  done, 
Less  brightly  ?  when  the  dew-lipped  Spring  comes  on, 
Breathes  she  with  airs  less  soft,  or  scents  the  sky 
"With  flowers  less  fair  than  when  her  reign  begun  ? 
Does  prodigal  Autumn,  to  our  age,  deny 
The  plenty  that  once  swelled  beneath  his  sober  eye  ? 


THE  AGES. 

VI. 

Look  on  this  beautiful  world,  and  read  the  truth 
In  her  fair  page ;  see,  every  season  brings 
New  change,  to  her,  of  everlasting  youth  ; 
Still  the  green  soil,  with  joyous  living  things, 
Swarms,  the  wide  air  is  full  of  joyous  wings, 
And  myriads,  still,  are  happy  in  the  sleep 
Of  ocean's  azure  gulfs,  and  where  he  flings 
The  restless  surge.     Eternal  Love  doth  keep, 
In  his  complacent  arms,  the  earth,  the  air,  the  deep. 


Will  then  the  merciful  One,  who  stamped  our  race 
With  his  own  image,  and  who  gave  them  sway 
O'er  earth,  and  the  glad  dwellers  on  her  face, 
Now  that  our  swarming  nations  far  away 
Are  spread,  where'er  the  moist  earth  drinks  the  clay, 
Forget  the  ancient  care  that  taught  and  nursed 
His  latest  offspring  ?  will  he  quench  the  ray 
Infused  by  his  own  forming  smile  at  first, 
And  leave  a  work  so  fair  all  blighted  and  accursed  ? 

f 

VIII. 

Oh,  no !  a  thousand  cheerful  omens  give 
Hope  of  yet  happier  days,  whose  dawn  is  nigh. 
He  who  has  tamed  the  elements,  shall  not  live 
The  slave  of  his  own  passions ;  he  whose  eye 
Unwinds  the  eternal  dances  of  the  sky, 
And  in  the  abyss  of  brightness  dares  to  span 
The  sun's  broad  circle,  rising  yet  more  high, 
In  God's  magnificent  works  his  will  shall  scan — 
And  love  and  peace  shall  make  their  paradise  with  man. 


H 


POEMS. 


Sit  at  the  feet  of  History — through  the  night 
Of  years  the  steps  of  virtue  she  shall  trace. 
And  show  the  earlier  ages,  where  her  sight 
Can  pierce  the  eternal  shadows  o'er  their  face; — 
When,  from  the  genial  cradle  of  our  race, 
Went  forth  the  tribes  of  men,  their  pleasant  lot 
To  choose,  where  palm-groves  cooled  their  dwelling-place, 
Or  freshening  rivers  ran  ;  and  there  forgot 
The  truth  of  heaven,  and  kneeled  to  gods  that  heard  them  not. 


Then  waited  not  the  murderer  for  the  night, 
But  smote  his  brother  down  in  the  bright  day, 
And  he  who  felt  the  wrong,  and  had  the  might, 
His  own  avenger,  girt  himself  to  slay ; 
Beside  the  path  the  unburied  carcass  lay ; 
The  shepherd,  by  the  fountains  of  the  glen, 
Fled,  while  the  robber  swept  his  flock  away, 
And  slew  his  babes.     The  sick,  untended  then, 
Languished  in  the  damp  shade,  and  died  afar  from  men. 


But  misery  brought  in  love ;  in  passion's  strife 
Man  gave  his  heart  to  mercy,  pleading  long, 
And  sought  out  gentle  deeds  to  gladden  life ; 
The  weak,  against  the  sons  of  spoil  and  wrong, 
Banded,  and  watched  their  hamlets,  and  grew  strong; 
States  rose,  and,  in  the  shadow  of  their  might, 
The  timid  rested.     To  the  reverent  throng, 
Grave  and  time-wrinkled  men,  with  locks  all  white, 
Gave  laws,  and  judged  their  strifes,  and  taught  the  way  of  right 


THE  AGES. 

XII. 

Till  bolder  spirits  seized  the  rule,  and  nailed 
On  men  the  yoke  that  man  should  never  bear, 
And  drave  them  forth  to  battle.     Lo  !  unveiled 
The  scene  of  those  stern  ages  !     What  is  there 
A  boundless  sea  of  blood,  and  the  wild  air 
Moans  with  the  crimson  surges  that  entomb 
Cities  and  bannered  armies ;  forms  that  wear 
The  kingly  circlet  rise,  amid  the  gloom, 
O'er  the  dark  wave,  and  straight  are  swallowed  in  its  womb. 

Xin. 

Those  ages  have  no  memory,  but  they  left 
A  record  in  the  desert — columns  strown 
On  the  waste  sands,  and  statues  fallen  and  cleft, 
Heaped  like  a  host  in  battle  overthrown  ; 
Vast  ruins,  where  the  mountain's  ribs  of  stone 
Were  hewn  into  a  city ;  streets  that  spread 
In  the  dark  earth,  where  never  breath  has  blown 
Of  heaven's  sweet  air,  nor  foot  of  man  dares  tread 
The  long  and  perilous  ways — the  Cities  of  the  Dead  ! 


And  tombs  of  monarchs  to  the  clouds  up-piled — 
They  perished,  but  the  eternal  tombs  remain — 
And  the  black  precipice,  abrupt  and  wild, 
Pierced  by  long  toil  and  hollowed  to  a  fane  ; — 
Huge  piers  and  frowning  forms  of  gods  sustain 
The  everlasting  arches,  dark  and  wide, 
Like  the  night-heaven,  when  clouds  are  black  with  rain: 
But  idly  skill  was  tasked,  and  strength  was  plied, 
All  was  the  work  of  slaves  to  swell  a  despot's  pride. 


16  POEMS. 

xv. 

And  Virtue  cannot  dwell  with  slaves,  nor  reign 
O'er  those  who  cower  to  take  a  tyrant's  yoke ; 
She  left  the  down-trod  nations  in  disdain, 
And  flew  to  Greece,  when  Liberty  awoke, 
New-born,  amid  those  glorious  vales,  and  broke 
Sceptre  and  chain  with  her  fair  youthful  hands  : 
As  rocks  are  shivered  in  the  thunder-stroke. 
And  lo !  in  full-grown  strength,  an  empire  stands 
Of  leagued  and  rival  states,  the  wonder  of  the  lands. 

XVI. 

Oh,  Greece !  thy  flourishing  cities  were  a  spoil 
Unto  each  other ;  thy  hard  hand  oppressed 
And  crushed  the  helpless ;  thou  didst  make  thy  soil 
Drunk  with  the  blood  of  those  that  loved  thee  best ; 
And  thou  didst  drive,  from  thy  unnatural  breast, 
Thy  just  and  brave  to  die  in  distant  climes ; 
Earth  shuddered  at  thy  deeds,  and  sighed  for  rest 
From  thine  abominations  ;  after-times, 
That  yet  shall  read  thy  tale,  will  tremble  at  thy  crimes  ! 


Yet  there  was  that  within  thee  which  has  saved 
Thy  glory,  and  redeemed  thy  blotted  name  ; 
The  story  of  thy  better  deeds,  engraved 
On  fame's  unmouldering  pillar,  puts  to  shame 
Our  chiller  virtue ;  the  high  art  to  tame 
The  whirlwind  of  the  passions  was  thine  own ; 
And  the  pure  ray,  that  from  thy  bosom  came, 
Far  over  many  a  land  and  age  has  shone, 
And  mingles  with  the  light  that  beams  from  God's  own  throne. 


.     THE  AGES.  17 

XVIII. 

And  Rome — thy  sterner,  younger  sister,  she 
Who  awed  the  world  with  her  imperial  frown — 
Rome  drew  the  spirit  of  her  race  from  thee, 
The  rival  of  thy  shame  and  thy  renown. 
Yet  her  degenerate  children  sold  the  crown 
Of  earth's  wide  kingdoms  to  a  line  of  slaves  ; 
Guilt  reigned,  and  woe  with  guilt,  and  plagues  came  down, 
Till  the  North  broke  its  floodgates,  and  the  waves 
Whelmed  the  degraded  race,  and  weltered  o'er  their  graves. 


Vainly  that  ray  of  brightness  from  above, 
That  shone  around  the  Galilean  lake, 
The  light  of  hope,  the  leading  star  of  love, 
Struggled,  the  darkness  of  that  day  to  break ; 
Even  its  own  faithless  guardians  strove  to  slake, 
In  fogs  of  earth,  the  pure  ethereal  flame ; 
And  priestly  hands,  for  Jesus'  blessed  sake, 
Were  red  with  blood,  and  charity  became, 
In  that  stern  war  of  forms,  a  mockery  and  a  name. 


They  triumphed,  and  less  bloody  rites  were  kept 
Within  the  quiet  of  the  convent-cell ; 
The  well-fed  inmates  pattered  prayer,  and  slept, 
And  sinned,  and  liked  their  easy  penance  well. 
Where  pleasant  was  the  spot  for  men  to  dwell, 
Amid  its  fair  broad  lands  the  abbey  lay, 
Sheltering  dark  orgies  that  were  shame  to  tell, 
And  cowled  and  barefoot  beggars  swarmed  the  way, 
All  in  their  convent  weeds,  of  black,  and  white,  and  gray. 


1 3  POEMS. 

XXI. 

Oh,  sweetly  the  returning  muses'  strain 
Swelled  over  that  famed  stream,  whose  gentle  tide 
In  their  bright  lap  the  Etrurian  vales  detain, 
Sweet,  as  when  winter  storms  have  ceased  to  chide, 
And  all  the  new-leaved  woods,  resounding  wide, 
Send  out  wild  hymns  upon  the  scented  air. 
Lo !  to  the  smiling  Arno's  classic  side 
The  emulous  nations  of  the  West  repair, 
And  kindle  their  quenched  urns,  and  drink  fresh  spirit  there. 

XXII. 

Still,  Heaven  deferred  the  hour  ordained  to  rend 
From  saintly  rottenness  the  sacred  stole ; 
And  cowl  and  worshipped  shrine  could  still  defend 
The  wretch  with  felon  stains  upon  his  soul ; 
And  crimes  were  set  to  sale,  and  hard  his  dole 
Who  could  not  bribe  a  passage  to  the  skies ; 
And  vice,  beneath  the  mitre's  kind  control, 
Sinned  gayly  on,  and  grew  to  giant  size, 
Shielded  by  priestly  power,  and  watched  by  priestly  eyes. 

XXIII. 

At  last  the  earthquake  came — the  shock,  that  hurled 
To  dust,  in  many  fragments  dashed  and  strown, 
The  throne,  whose  roots  were  in  another  world, 
And  whose  far-stretching  shadow  awed  our  own. 
From  many  a  proud  monastic  pile,  o'erthrown, 
Fear-struck,  the  hooded  inmates  rushed  and  fled  ; 
The  web,  that  for  a  thousand  years  had  grown 
O'er  prostrate  Europe,  in  that  day  of  dread 
Crumbled  and  fell,  as  fire  dissolves  the  flaxen  thread. 


THE  AGES.  19 

XXIV. 

The  spirit  of  that  day  is  still  awake, 
And  spreads  himself,  and  shall  not  sleep  again ; 
But  through  the  idle  mesh  of  power  shall  break 
Like  billows  o'er  the  Asian  monarch's  chain ; 
Till  men  are  filled  with  him,  and  feel  how  vain, 
Instead  of  the  pure  heart  and  innocent  hands, 
Are  all  the  proud  and  pompous  modes  to  gain 
The  smile  of  Heaven ; — till  a  new  age  expands 
Its  white  and  holy  wings  above  the  peaceful  lands. 

XXV. 

For  loqk  again  on  the  past  years ; — behold, 
How  like  the  nightmare's  dreams  have  flown  away 
Horrible  forms  of  worship,  that,  of  old, 
Held,  o'er  the  shuddering  realms,  unquestioned  sway  : 
See  crimes,  that  feared  not  once  the  eye  of  day, 
Rooted  from  men,  without  a  name  or  place : 
See  nations  blotted  out  from  earth,  to  pay 
The  forfeit  of  deep  guilt ; — with  glad  embrace 
The  fair  disburdened  lands  welcome  a  nobler  race. 

XXVI. 

Thus  error's  monstrous  shapes  from  earth  are  driven ; 
They  fade,  they  fly — but  Truth  survives  their  flight ; 
Earth  has  no  shades  to  quench  that  beam  of  heaven  ; 
Each  ray  that  shone,  in  early  time,  to  light 
The  faltering  footstep  in  the  path  of  right, 
Each  gleam  of  clearer  brightness  shed  to  aid 
In  man's  maturer  day  his  bolder  sight, 
All  blended,  like  the  rainbow's  radiant  braid, 
Pour  yet,  and  still  shall  pour,  the  blaze  that  cannot  fade. 


20  POEMS. 

XXVII. 

Late,  from  this  Western  shore,  that  morning  chased 
The  deep  and  ancient  night,  which  threw  its  shroud 
O'er  the  green  land  of  groves,  the  beautiful  waste, 
Nurse  of  full  streams,  and  lifter-up  of  proud 
Sky-mingling  mountains  that  o'erlook  the  cloud. 
Erewhile,  where  yon  gay  spires  their  brightness  rear, 
Trees  waved,  and  the  brown  hunter's  shouts  were  loud 
Amid  the  forest ;  and  the  bounding  deer 
,     Fled  at  the  glancing  plume,  and  the  gaunt  wolf  yelled  near. 


And  where  his  willing  waves  yon  bright  blue  bay 
Sends  up,  to  kiss  his  decorated  brim, 
And  cradles,  in  his  soft  embrace,  the  gay 
Young  group  of  grassy  islands  born  of  him, 
And  crowding  nigh,  or  in  the  distance  dim, 
Lifts  the  white  throng  of  sails,  that  bear  or  bring 
The  commerce  of  the  world ; — with  tawny  limb, 
And  belt  and  beads  in  sunlight  glistening, 
The  savage  urged  his  skiff  like  wild  bird  on  the  wing. 

XXIX. 

Then  all  this  youthful  paradise  around, 
And  all  the  broad  and  boundless  mainland,  lay 
Cooled  by  the  interminable  wood,  that  frowned 
O'er  mount  and  vale,  where  never  summer  ray 
Glanced,  till  the  strong  tornado  broke  his  way 
Through  the  gray  giants  of  the  sylvan  wild ; 
Yet  many  a  sheltered  glade,  with  blossoms  gay . 
Beneath  the  showery  sky  and  sunshine  mild, 
Within  the  shaggy  arms  of  that  dark  forest  smilc'l. 


THE  AGES.  21 

xxx. 

There  stood  the  Indian  hamlet,  there  the  lake 
Spread  its  blue  sheet  that  flashed  with  many  an  oar, 
Where  the  brown  otter  plunged  him  from  the  brake, 
And  the  deer  drank  :  as  the  light  gale  flew  o'er, 
The  twinkling  maize-field  rustled  on  the  shore  ; 
And  while  that  spot,  so  wild,  and  lone,  and  fair, 
A  look  of  glad  and  guiltless  beauty  wore, 
And  peace  was  on  the  earth  and  in  the  air, 
The  warrior  lit  the  pile,  and  bound  his  captive  there. 

XXXI. 

Not  unavenged— the  foeman,  from  the  wood, 
Beheld  the  deed,  and  when  the  midnight  shade 
Was  stillest,  gorged  his  battle-axe  with  blood ; 
All  died — the  wailing  babe — the  shrinking  maid — 
And  in  the  flood  of  fire  that  scathed  the  glade, 
The  roofs  went  down;  but  deep  the  silence  grew, 
When  on  the  dewy  woods  the  day-beam  played ; 
No  more  the  cabin-smokes  rose  wreathed  and  blue, 
And  ever,  by  their  lake,  lay  moored  the  bark  canoe. 

XXXII. 

Look  now  abroad — another  race  has  filled 
These  populous  borders — wide  the  wood  recedes, 
And  towns  shoot  up,  and  fertile  realms  are  tilled : 
The  land  is  full  of  harvests  and  green  meads  ; 
Streams  numberless,  that  many  a  fountain  feeds, 
Shine,  disembowered,  and  give  to  sun  and  breeze 
Their  virgin  waters ;  the  full  region  leads 
New  colonies  forth,  that  toward  the  western  seas 
Spread,  like  a  rapid  flame  among  the  autumnal  trees. 


22  POEMS. 

XXXIII. 

Here  the  free  spirit  of  mankind,  at  length, 
Throws  its  last  fetters  off;  and  who  shall  place 
A  limit  to  the  giant's  unchained  strength, 
Or  curb  his  swiftness  in  the  forward  race  ? 
On,  like  the  comet's  way  through  infinite  space, 
Stretches  the  long  untravelled  path  of  light, 
Into  the  depths  of  ages ;  we  may  trace, 
Afar,  the  brightening  glory  of  its  flight, 
Till  the  receding  rays  are  lost  to  human  sight. 

xxxiv. 

Europe  is  given  a  prey  to  sterner  fates, 
And  writhes  in  shackles ;  strong  the  arms  that  chain 
To  earth  her  struggling  multitude  of  states ; 
She  too  is  strong,  and  might  not  chafe  in  vain 
Against  them,  but  might  cast  to  earth  the  train 
That  trample  her,  and  break  their  iron  net, 
Yes,  she  shall  look  on  brighter  days  and  gain 
The  meed  of  worthier  deeds ;  the  moment  set 
To  rescue  and  raise  up,  draws  near — but  is  not  yet. 

xxxv. 

But  thou,  my  country,  thou  shalt  never  fall, 
Save  with  thy  children — thy  maternal  care, 
Thy  lavish  love,  thy  blessings  showered  on  all — 
These  are  thy  fetters — seas  and  stormy  air 
Are  the  wide  barrier  of  thy  borders,  where, 
Among  thy  gallant  sons  who  guard  thee  well, 
Thou  laugh'st  at  enemies  :  who  shall  then  declare 
The  date  of  thy  deep-founded  strength,  or  tell 
How  happy,  in  thy  lap,  the  sons  of  men  shall  dwell  ? 


THANATOPSIS.  "  23 


THANATOPSIS. 

To  him  who  in  the  love  of  Nature  holds 
•Communion  with  her  visible  forms,  she  speaks 
A  various  language  ;  for  his  gayer  hours 
She  has  a  voice  of  gladness,  and  a  smile 
And  eloquence  of  beauty,  and  she  glides 
Into  his  darker  musings,  with  a  mild 
And  healing  sympathy,  that  steals  away 
Their  sharpness,  ere  he  is  aware.     When  thoughts 
Of  the  last  bitter  hour  come  like  a  blight 
Over  thy  spirit,  and  sad  images 
Of  the  stern  agony,  and  shroud,  and  pall, 
And  breathless  darkness,  and  the  narrow  house, 
Make  thee  to  shudder,  and  grow  sick  at  heart ; — 
Go  forth,  under  the  open  sky,  and  list 
To  Nature's  teachings,  while  from  all  around — 
Earth  and  her  waters,  and  the  depths  of  air — 
Comes  a  still  voice — Yet  a  few  days,  and  thee 
The  all-beholding  sun  shall  see  no  more 
In  all  his  course ;  nor  yet  in  the  cold  ground, 
Where  thy  pale  form  was  laid,  with  many  tears, 
Nor  in  the  embrace  of  ocean,  shall  exist 
Thy  image.     Earth,  that  nourished  thee,  shall  claim 
Thy  growth,  to  be  resolved  to  earth  again, 
And,  lost  each  human  trace,  surrendering  up 
Thine  individual  being,  shalt  thou  go 
To  mix  for  ever  with  the  elements, 
To  be  a  brother  to  the  insensible  rock 
And  to  the  sluggish  clod,  which  the  rude  swain 
Turns  with  his  share,  and  treads  upon.     The  oak 
Shall  send  his  roots  abroad,  and  pierce  thy  mould. 


24  POEMS. 

Yet  not  to  thine  eternal  resting-place 
Shalt  thou  retire  alone,  nor  couldst  thou  wish 
Couch  more  magnificent.     Thou  shalt  lie  down 
With  patriarchs  of  the  infant  world — with  kings, 
The  powerful  of  the  earth — the  wise,  the  good, 
Fair  forms,  and  hoary  seers  of  ages  past, 
All  in  one  mighty  sepulchre.     The  hills 
Rock-ribbed  and  ancient  as  the  sun, — the  vales 
Stretching  in  pensive  quietness  between ; 
The  venerable  woods — rivers  that  move 
In  majesty,  and  the  complaining  brooks 
That  make,  the  meadows  green ;  and,  poured  round  all, 
Old  Ocean's  gray  and  melancholy  waste, — 
Are  but  the  solemn  decorations  all 
Of  the  great  tomb  of  man.     The  golden  sun, 
The  planets,  all  the  infinite  host  of  heaven, 
Are  shining  on  the  sad  abodes  of  death, 
Through  the  still  lapse  of  ages.     All  that  tread 
The  globe  are  but  a  handful  to  the  tribes 
That  slumber  in  its  bosom. — Take  the  wings 
Of  morning,  pierce  the  Barcan  wilderness, 
Or  lose  thyself  in  the  continuous  woods 
Where  rolls  the  Oregon,  and  hears  no  sound, 
Save  his  own  dashings — yet  the  dead  are  there : 
And  millions  in  those  solitudes,  since  first 
The  flight  of  years  began,  have  laid  them  down 
In  their  last  sleep — the  dead  reign  there  alone. 
So  shalt  thou  rest,  and  what  if  thou  withdraw 
In  silence  from  the  living,  and  no  friend 
Take  note  of  thy  departure?     All  that  breathe 
Will  share  thy  destiny.     The  gay  will  laugh 
When  thou  art  gone,  the  solemn  brood  of  care 
Plod  on,  and  each  one  as  before  will  chase 
His  favorite  phantom ;  yet  all  these  shall  leave 


THE    YELLOW  VIOLET. 

Their  mirth  and  their  employments,  and  shall  come 

And  make  their  bed  with  thee.     As  the  long  train 

Of  ages  glide  away,  the  sons  of  men, 

The  youth  in  life's  green  spring,  and  he  who  goes 

In  the  full  strength  of  years,  matron  and  maid, 

The  speechless  babe,  and  the  gray-headed  man — 

Shall  one  by  one  be  gathered  to  thy  side, 

By  those,  who  in  their  turn  shall  follow  them. 

So  live,  that  when  thy  summons  comes  to  join 
The  innumerable  caravan,  which  moves 
To  that  mysterious  realm,  where  each  shall  take 
His  chamber  in  the  silent  halls  of  death, 
Thou  go  not,  like  the  quarry-slave  at  night, 
Scourged  to  his  dungeon,  but,  sustained  and  soothed 
By  an  unfaltering  trust,  approach  thy  grave, 
Like  one  who  wraps  the  drapery  of  his  couch 
About  him,  and  lies  down  to  pleasant  dreams. 


THE   YELLOW   VIOLET. 

WHEN  beechen  buds  begin  to  swell, 

And  woods  the  blue-bird's  warble  know, 

The  yellow  violet's  modest  bell 
Peeps  from  the  last  year's  leaves  below. 

Ere  russet  fields  their  green  resume, 
Sweet  flower,  I  love,  in  forest  bare, 

To  meet  thee,  when  thy  faint  perfume 
Alone  is  in  the  virgin  air. 

3 


2  6  POEMS. 


Of  all  her  train,  the  hands  of  Spring 
First  plant  thee  in  the  watery  mould, 

And  I  have  seen  thee  blossoming 
Beside  the  snow-bank's  edges  cold. 

Thy  parent  sun,  who  bade  thee  view 
Pale  skies,  and  chilling  moisture  sip, 

Has  bathed  thee  in  his  own  bright  hue, 
And  streaked  with  jet  thy  glowing  lip. 

Yet  slight  thy  form,  and  low  thy  seat, 
And  earthward  bent  thy  gentle  eye, 

Unapt  the  passing  view  to  meet, 
When  loftier  flowers  are  flaunting  nigh. 

Oft,  in  the  sunless  April  day, 
Thy  early  smile  has  stayed  my  walk ; 

But  midst  the  gorgeous  blooms  of  May, 
I  passed  thee  on  thy  humble  stalk. 

So  they,  who  climb  to  wealth,  forget 
The  friends  in  darker  fortunes  tried. 

I  copied  them — but  I  regret 

That  I  should  ape  the  ways  of  pride. 

And  when  again  the  genial  hour 
Awakes  the  painted  tribes  of  light, 

I'll  not  o'erlook  the  modest  flower 
That  made  the  woods  of  April  bright. 


enter  this  wild  wood 
And  view  the  haunts  of  Nature. 

INSCRIPTION  ros  THS  ENTRANCE  TO  A  WOOD,  p.  27. 


INSCRIPTION  FOR  ENTRANCE  TO  A   WOOD. 


INSCRIPTION  FOR  THE  ENTRANCE  TO  A  WOOD. 

STRANGER,  if  thou  hast  learned  a  truth  which  needs 
No  school  of  long  experience,  that  the  world 
Is  full  of  guilt  and  misery,  and  hast  seen 
Enough  of  all  its  sorrows,  crimes,  and  cares, 
To  tire  thee  of  it,  enter  this  wild  wood 
And  view  the  haunts  of  Nature.     The  calm  shade 
Shall  bring  a  kindred  calm,  and  the  sweet  breeze 
That  makes  the  green  leaves  dance,  shall  waft  a  balm 
To  thy  sick  heart.     Thou  wilt  find  nothing  here 
Of  all  that  pained  thee  in  the  haunts  of  men, 
And  made  thee  loathe  thy  life.     The  primal  curse 
Fell,  it  is  true,  upon  the  unsinning  earth, 
But  not  in  vengeance.     God  hath  yoked  to  guilt 
Her  pale  tormentor,  misery.     Hence,  these  shades 
Are  still  the  abodes  of  gladness ;  the  thick  roof 
Of  green  and  stirring  branches  is  alive 
And  musical  with  birds,  that  sing  and  sport 
In  wantonness  of  spirit ;  while  below 
The  squirrel,  with  raised  paws  and  form  erect, 
Chirps  merrily.     Throngs  of  insects  in  the  shade 
Try  their  thin  wings  and  dance  in  the  warm  beam 
That  waked  them  into  life.     Even  the  green  trees 
Partake  the  deep  contentment ;  as  they  bend 
To  the  soft  winds,  the  sun  from  the  blue  sky 
Looks  in  and  sheds  a  blessing  on  the  scene. 
Scarce  less  the  cleft-born  wild-flower  seems  to  enjoy 
Existence,  than  the  winged  plunderer 
That  sucks  its  sweets.     The  mossy  rocks  themselves, 
And  the  old  and  ponderous  trunks  of  prostrate  trees 
That  lead  from  knoll  to  knoll  a  causey  rude 


28  POEMS. 

Or  bridge  the  sunken  brook,  and  their  dark  roots, 
With  all  their  earth  upon  them,  twisting  high, 
Breathe  fixed  tranquillity.     The  rivulet 
Sends  forth  glad  sounds,  and  tripping  o'er  its  bed 
Of  pebbly  sands,  or  leaping  down  the  rocks, 
Seems,  with  continuous  laughter,  to  rejoice 
In  its  own  being.     Softly  tread  the  marge, 
Lest  from  her  midway  perch  thou  scare  the  wren 
That  dips  her  bill  in  water.     The  cool  wind, 
That  stirs  the  stream  in  play,  shall  come  to  thee, 
Like  one  that  loves  thee  nor  will  let  thee  pass 
Ungreeted,  and  shall  give  its  light  embrace. 


SONG. 

SOON  as  the  glazed  and  gleaming  snow 
Reflects  the  day-dawn  cold  and  clear, 

The  hunter  of  the  West  must  go 
In  depth  of  woods  to  seek  the  deer. 

His  rifle  on  his  shoulder  placed, 
His  stores  of  death  arranged  with  skill, 

His  moccasins  and  snow-shoes  laced — 
Why  lingers  he  beside  the  hill  ? 

Far,  in  the  dim  and  doubtful  light, 
Where  woody  slopes  a  valley  leave, 

He  sees  what  none  but  lover  might, 
The  dwelling  of  his  Genevieve. 


I 


Seek'st  thou  the  plashy  brink 
Of  weedy  lake,  or  marge  of  river  wide. 

To  A  WATERFOWL 


p.  29. 


TO  A    WATERFOWL. 

And  oft  he  turns  his  truant  eye, 
And  pauses  oft,  and  lingers  near ; 

But  when  he  marks  the  reddening  sky, 
He  bounds  away  to  hunt  the  deer. 


TO  A  WATERFOWL. 

WHITHER,  midst  falling  dew, 
While  glow  the  heavens  with  the  last  steps  of  day, 
Far,  through  their  rosy  depths,  dost  thou  pursue 

Thy  solitary  way  ? 

Vainly  the  fowler's  eye 

Might  mark  thy  distant  flight  to  do  thee  wrong 
As,  darkly  seen  against  the  crimson  sky, 

Thy  figure  floats  along. 

Seek'st  thou  the  plashy  brink 
Of  weedy  lake,  or  marge  of  river  wide, 
Or  where  the  rocking  billows  rise  and  sink 

On  the  chafed  ocean-side  ? 

There  is  a  Power  whose  care 
Teaches  thy  way  along  that  pathless  coast — 
The  desert  and  illimitable  air — 

Lone  wandering,  but  not  lost. 

All  day  thy  wings  have  fanned, 
At  that  far  height,  the  cold,  thin  atmosphere, 
Yet  stoop  not,  weary,  to  the  welcome  land, 

Though  the  dark  night  is  near. 


3° 


POEMS. 

And  soon  that  toil  shall  end ; 
Soon  shalt  thou  find  a  summer  home,  and  rest, 
And  scream  among  thy  fellows  ;  reeds  shall  bend, 

Soon,  o'er  thy  sheltered  nest. 

Thou'rt  gone,  the  abyss  of  heaven 
Hath  swallowed  up  thy  form ;  yet,  on  my  heart 
Deeply  hath  sunk  the  lesson  thou  hast  given, 

And  shall  not  soon  depart. 

He  who,  from  zone  to  zone, 

Guides  through  the  boundless  sky  thy  certain  flight, 
In  the  long  way  that  I  must  tread  alone, 

Will  lead  my  steps  aright. 


GREEN   RIVER. 

WHEN  breezes  are  soft  and  skies  are  fair, 
I  steal  an  hour  from  study  and  care, 
And  hie  me  away  to  the  woodland  scene, 
Where  wanders  the  stream  with  waters  of  green. 
As  if  the  bright  fringe  of  herbs  on  its  brink 
Had  given  their  stain  to  the  wave  they  drink ; 
And  they,  whose  meadows  it  murmurs  through, 
Have  named  the  stream  from  its  own  fair  hue. 

Yet  pure  its  waters — its  shallows  are  bright 
With  colored  pebbles  and  sparkles  of  light, 
And  clear  the  depths  where  its  eddies  play, 
And  dimples  deepen  and  whirl  away, 


GREEN  RIVER.  3 , 

And  the  plane-tree's  speckled  arms  o'ershoot 

The  swifter  current  that  mines  its  root, 

Through  whose  shifting  leaves,  as  you  walk  the  hill, 

The  quivering  glimmer  of  sun  and  rill 

With  a  sudden  flash  on  the  eye  is  thrown, 

Like  the  ray  that  streams  from  the  diamond-stone. 

Oh,  loveliest  there  the  spring  days  come, 

With  blossoms,  and  birds,  and  wild-bees'  hum ; 

The  flowers  of  summer  are  fairest  there, 

And  freshest  the  breath  of  the  summer  air ; 

And  sweetest  the  golden  autumn  day 

In  silence  and  sunshine  glides  away. 

Yet  fair  as  thou  art,  thou  shunnest  to  glide, 
Beautiful  stream !  by  the  village  side ; 
But  windest  away  from  haunts  of  men, 
To  quiet  valley  and  shaded  glen ; 
And  forest,  and  meadow,  and  slope  of  hill, 
Around  thee,  are  lonely,  lovely,  and  still, 
Lonely — save  when,  by  thy  rippling  tides, 
From  thicket  to  thicket  the  angler  glides ; 
Or  the  simpler  comes,  with  basket  and  book, 
For  herbs  of  power  on  thy  banks  to  look ; 
Or  haply,  some  idle  dreamer,  like  me, 
To  wander,  and  muse,  and  gaze  on  thee, 
Still — save  the  chirp  of  birds  that  feed 
On  the  river  cherry  and  seedy  reed, 
And  thy  own  wild  music  gushing  out 
With  mellow  murmur  of  fairy  shout, 
From  dawn  to  the  blush  of  another  day, 
Like  traveller  singing  along  his  way. 

That  fairy  music  I  never  hear, 
Nor  gaze  on  those  waters  so  green  and  clear, 


32  POEMS. 

And  mark  them  winding  away  from  sight, 
Darkened  with  shade  or  flashing  with  light, 
While  o'er  them  the  vine  to  its  thicket  clings, 
And  the  zephyr  stoops  to  freshen  his  wings, 
But  I  wish  that  fate  had  left  me  free 
To  wander  these  quiet  haunts  with  thee, 
Till  the  eating  cares  of  earth  should  depart, 
And  the  peace  of  the  scene  pass  into  my  heart ; 
And  I  envy  thy  stream,  as  it  glides  along 
Through  its  beautiful  banks  in  a  trance  of  song. 

Though  forced  to  drudge  for  the  dregs  of  men, 
And  scrawl  strange  words  with  the  barbarous  pen, 
And  mingle  among  the  jostling  crowd, 
Where  the  sons  of  strife  are  subtle  and  loud— 
I  often  come  to  this  quiet  place, 
To  breathe  the  airs  that  ruffle  thy  face, 
And  gaze  upon  thee  in  silent  dream, 
For  in  thy  lonely  and  lovely  stream 
An  image  of  that  calm  life  appears 
That  won  my  heart  in  my  greener  years. 


A  WINTER  PIECE. 

THE  time  has  been  that  these  wild  solitudes, 
Yet  beautiful  as  wild,  were  trod  by  me 
Oftener  than  now ;  and  when  the  ills  of  life 
Had  chafed  my  spirit — when  the  unsteady  pulse 
Beat  with  strange  flutterings — I  would  wander  forth 
And  seek  the  woods.     The  sunshine  on  my  path 


A    WINTER  PIECE.  33 

Was  to  me  as  a  friend.     The  swelling  hills, 

The  quiet  dells  retiring  far  between, 

With  gentle  invitation  to  explore 

Their  windings,  were  a  calm  society 

That  talked  with  me  and  soothed  me.    Then  the  chant 

Of  birds,  and  chime  of  brooks,  and  soft  caress 

Of  the  fresh  sylvan  air,  made  me  forget 

The  thoughts  that  broke  my  peace,  and  I  began 

To  gather  simples  by  the  fountain's  brink, 

And  lose  myself  in  day-dreams.     While  I  stood 

In  Nature's  loneliness,  I  was  with  one 

With  whom  I  early  grew  familiar,  one 

Who  never  had  a  frown  for  me,  whose  voice 

Never  rebuked  me  for  the  hours  I  stole 

From  cares  I  loved  not,  but  of  which  the  world 

Deems  highest,  to  converse  with  her.     When  shrieked 

The  bleak  November  winds,  and  smote  the  woods, 

And  the  brown  fields  were  herbless,  and  the  shades, 

That  met  above  the  merry  rivulet, 

Were  spoiled,  I  sought,  I  loved  them  still ;  they  seemed 

Like  old  companions  in  adversity. 

Still  there  was  beauty  in  my  walks ;  the  brook, 

Bordered  with  sparkling  frost-work,  was  as  gay 

As  with  its  fringe  of  summer  flowers.     Afar, 

The  village  with  its  spires,  the  path  of  streams 

And  dim  receding  valleys,  hid  before 

By  interposing  trees,  lay  visible 

Through  the  bare  grove,  and  my  familiar  haunts 

Seemed  new  to  me.     Nor  was  I  slow  to  come 

Among  them,  when  the  clouds,  from  their  still  skirts, 

Had  shaken  down  on  earth  the  feathery  snow, 

And  all  was  white.     The  pure  keen  air  abroad, 

Albeit  it  breathed  no  scent  of  herb,  nor  heard 

Love-call  of  bird  nor  merry  hum  of  bee, 


POEMS. 

Was  not  the  air  of  death.     Bright  mosses  crept 
Over  the  spotted  trunks,  and  the  close  buds, 
That  lay  along  the  boughs,  instinct  with  life, 
Patient,  and  waiting  the  soft  breath  of  Spring, 
Feared  not  the  piercing  spirit  of  the  North. 
The  snow-bird  twittered  on  the  beechen  bough, 
And  'neath  the  hemlock,  whose  thick  branches  bent 
Beneath  its  bright  cold  burden,  and  kept  dry 
A  circle,  on  the  earth,  of  withered  leaves, 
The  partridge  found  a  shelter.     Through  the  snow 
The  rabbit  sprang  away.     The  lighter  track 
Of  fox,  and  the  raccoon's  broad  path,  were  there, 
Crossing  each  other.     From  his  hollow  tree 
The  squirrel  was  abroad,  gathering  the  nuts 
Just  fallen,  that  asked  the  winter  cold  and  sway 
Of  winter  blast,  to  shake  them  from  their  hold. 

But  Winter  has  yet  brighter  scenes — he  boasts 
Splendors  beyond  what  gorgeous  Summer  knows  ; 
Or  Autumn  with  his  many  fruits,  and  woods 
All  flushed  with  many  hues.     Come  when  the  rains 
Have  glazed  the  snow  and  clothed  the  trees  with  ice, 
While  the  slant  sun  of  February  pours 
Into  the  bowers  a  flood  of  light.     Approach  ! 
The  incrusted  surface  shall  upbear  thy  steps, 
And  the  broad  arching  portals  of  the  grove 
Welcome  thy  entering.     Look !  the  massy  trunks 
Are  cased  in  the  pure  crystal ;  each  light  spray, 
Nodding  and  tinkling  in  the  breath  of  heaven, 
Is  studded  with  its  trembling  water-drops, 
That  glimmer  with  an  amethystine  light. 
But  round  the  parent-stem  the  long  low  boughs 
Bend,  in  a  glittering  ring,  and  arbors  hide 
The  glassy  floor.     Oh  !  you  might  deem  the  spot. 


A    WINTER  PIECE.  35 

The  spacious  cavern  of  some  virgin  mine, 

Deep  in  the  womb  of  earth — where  the  gems  grow, 

And  diamonds  put  forth  radiant  rods  and  bud 

With  amethyst  and  topaz — and  the  place 

Lit  up,  most  royally,  with  the  pure  beam 

That  dwells  in  them.     Or  haply  the  vast  hall 

Of  fairy  palace,  that  outlasts  the  night, 

And  fades  not  in  the  glory  of  the  sun ; — 

Where  crystal  columns  send  forth  slender  shafts 

And  crossing  arches ;  and  fantastic  aisles 

Wind  from  the  sight  in  brightness,  and  are  lost 

Among  the  crowded  pillars.     Raise  thine  eye ; 

Thou  seest  no  cavern  roof,  no  palace  vault ; 

There  the  blue  sky  and  the  white  drifting  cloud 

Look  in.     Again  the  wildered  fancy  dreams 

Of  spouting  fountains,  frozen  as  they  rose, 

And  fixed,  with  all  their  branching  jets,  in  air, 

And  all  their  sluices  sealed.     All,  all  is  light ; 

Light  without  shade.     But  all  shall  pass  away 

With  the  next  sun.     From  numberless  vast  trunks 

Loosened,  the  crashing  ice  shall  make  a  sound 

Like  the  far  roar  of  rivers,  and  the  eve 

Shall  close  o'er  the  brown  woods  as  it  was  wont. 

And  it  is  pleasant,  when  the  noisy  streams 
Are  just  set  free,  and  milder  suns  melt  off 
The  plashy  snow,  save  only  the  firm  drift 
In  the  deep  glen  or  the  close  shade  of  pines — 
'Tis  pleasant  to  behold  the  wreaths  of  smoke 
Roll  up  among  the  maples  of  the  hill, 
Where  the  shrill  sound  of  youthful  voices  wakes 
The  shriller  echo,  as  the  clear  pure  lymph, 
That  from  the  wounded  trees,  in  twinkling  drops, 
Falls,  mid  the  golden  brightness  of  the  morn, 


3  6  POEMS. 

Is  gathered  in  with  brimming  pails,  and  oft, 
Wielded  by  sturdy  hands,  the  stroke  of  axe 
Makes  the  woods  ring.     Along  the  quiet  air, 
Come  and  float  calmly  off  the  soft  light  clouds, 
Such  as  you  see  in  summer,  and  the  winds 
Scarce  stir  the  branches.     Lodged  in  sunny  cleft, 
Where  the  cold  breezes  come  not,  blooms  alone 
The  little  wind-flower,  whose  just  opened  eye 
Is  blue  as  the  spring  heaven  it  gazes  at— • 
Startling  the  loiterer  in  the  naked  groves 
With  unexpected  beauty,  for  the  time 
Of  blossoms  and  green  leaves  is  yet  afar. 
And  ere  it  comes,  the  encountering  winds  shall  oft 
.    Muster  their  wrath  again,  and  rapid  clouds 
Shade  heaven,  and  bounding  on  the  frozen  earth 
Shall  fall  their  volleyed  stores,  rounded  like  hail 
And  white  like  snow,  and  the  loud  North  again 
Shall  buffet  the  vexed  forest  in  his  rage. 


THE  WEST  WIND. 

BENEATH  the  forest's  skirt  I  rest, 
Whose  branching  pines  rise  dark  and  high 

And  hear  the  breezes  of  the  West 
Among  the  thread-like  foliage  sigh. 

Sweet  Zephyr !  why  that  sound  of  woe  ? 

Is  not  thy  home  among  the  flowers  ? 
Do  not  the  bright  June  roses  blow, 

To  meet  thy  kiss  at  morning  hours  ? 


THE  BURIAL-PLACE.  37 

And  lo !  thy  glorious  realm  outspread — 

Yon  stretching  valleys,  green  and  gay, 
And  yon  free  hill- tops,  o'er  whose  head 

The  loose  white  clouds  are  borne  away. 

And  there  the  full  broad  river  runs, 

And  many  a  fount  wells  fresh  and  sweet, 

To  cool  thee  when  the  mid-day  suns 

Have  made  thee  faint  beneath  their  heat. 

Thou  wind  of  joy,  and  youth,  and  love ; 

Spirit  of  the  new-wakened  year ! 
The  sun  in  his  blue  realm  above 

Smooths  a  bright  path  when  thou  art  here. 

In  lawns  the  murmuring  bee  is  heard, 

The  wooing  ring-dove  in  the  shade ; 
On  thy  soft  breath,  the  new-fledged  bird 

Takes  wing,  half  happy,  half  afraid. 

Ah !  thou  art  like  our  wayward  race ; — 

When  not  a  shade  of  pain  or  ill 
Dims  the  bright  smile  of  Nature's  face, 

Thou  lov'st  to  sigh  and  murmur  still. 


THE   BURIAL-PLACE. 

A  FRAGMENT. 

EREWHILE,  on  England's  pleasant  shores,  our  sires 
Left  not  their  churchyards  unadorned  with  shades 
Or  blossoms,  but  indulgent  to  the  strong 


58  POEMS. 

And  natural  dread  of  man's  last  home,  the  grave, 
Its  frost  and  silence — they  disposed  around, 
To  soothe  the  melancholy  spirit  that  dwelt 
Too  sadly  on  life's  close,  the  forms  and  hues 
Of  vegetable  beauty.     There  the  yew, 
Green  even  amid  the  snows  of  winter,  told 
Of  immortality,  and  gracefully 
The  willow,  a  perpetual  mourner,  drooped ; 
And  there  the  gadding  woodbine  crept  about, 
And  there  the  ancient  ivy.     From  the  spot 
Where  the  sweet  maiden,  in  her  blossoming  years 
Cut  off,  was  laid  with  streaming  eyes,  and  hands 
That  trembled  as  they  placed  her  there,  the  rose 
Sprung  modest,  on  bowed  stalk,  and  better  spoke 
Her  graces,  than  the  proudest  monument. 
There  children  set  about  their  playmate's  grave 
The  pansy.     On  the  infant's  little  bed, 
Wet  at  its  planting  with  maternal  tears, 
Emblem  of  early  sweetness,  early  death, 
Nestled  the  lowly  primrose.     Childless  dames, 
And  maids  that  would  not  raise  the  reddened  eye — 
Orphans,  from  whose  young  lids  the  light  of  joy 
Fled  early — silent  lovers,  who  had  given 
All  that  they  lived  for  to  the  arms  of  earth, 
Came  often,  o'er  the  recent  graves  to  strew 
Their  offerings,  rue,  and  rosemary,  and  flowers. 

The  pilgrim  bands  who  passed  the  sea  to  keep 
Their  Sabbaths  in  the  eye  of  God  alone, 
In  his  wide  temple  of  the  wilderness, 
Brought  not  these  simple  customs  of  the  heart 
With  them.     It  might  be,  while  they  laid  their  dead 
By  the  vast  solemn  skirts  of  the  old  groves, 
And  the  fresh  virgin  soil  poured  forth  strange  flowers 


' BLESSED  ARE   THEY  THAT  MOURN." 

About  their  graves ;  and  the  familiar  shades 

Of  their  own  native  isle,  and  wonted  blooms, 

And  herbs  were  wanting,  which  the  pious  hand 

Might  plant  or  scatter  there,  these  gentle  rites 

Passed  out  of  use.     Now  they  are  scarcely  known, 

And  rarely  in  our  borders  may  you  meet 

The  tall  larch,  sighing  in  the  burial-place, 

Or  willow,  trailing  low  its  boughs  to  hide 

The  gleaming  marble.     Naked  rows  of  graves 

And  melancholy  ranks  of  monuments 

Are  seen  instead,  where  the  coarse  grass,  between, 

Shoots  up  its  dull  green  spikes,  and  in  the  wind 

Hisses,  and  the  neglected  bramble  nigh, 

Offers  its  berries  to  the  schoolboy's  hand, 

In  vain — they  grow  too  near  the  dead.     Yet  here, 

Nature,  rebuking  the  neglect  of  man, 

Plants  often,  by  the  ancient  mossy  stone, 

The  brier-rose,  and  upon  the  broken  turf 

That  clothes  the  fresher  grave,  the  strawberry  plant 

Sprinkles  its  swell  with  blossoms,  and  lays  forth 

Her  ruddy,  pouting  fruit 


BLESSED   ARE   THEY   THAT   MOURN." 

•  • 
OH,  deem  not  they  are  blest  alone 

Whose  lives  a  peaceful  tenor  keep ; 
The  Power  who  pities  man,  hath  shown 

A  blessing  for  the  eyes  that  weep. 

The  light  of  smiles  shall  fill  again 
The  lids  that  overflow  with  tears ; 

And  Aveary  hours  of  woe  and  pain 
A.re  promises  of  happier  years. 


39 


4.0  POEMS. 

There  is  a  day  of  sunny  rest 

For  every  dark  and  troubled  night : 

And  grief  may  hide  an  evening  guest, 
But  joy  shall  come  with  early  light. 

And  thou,  who,  o'er  thy  friend's  low  bier, 
Dost  shed  the  bitter  drops  like  rain, 

Hope  that  a  brighter,  happier  sphere 
Will  give  him  to  thy  arms  again. 

Nor  let  the  good  man's  trust  depart, 
Though  life  its  common  gifts  deny, — 

Though  with  a  pierced  and  bleeding  heart 
And  spurned  of  men,  he  goes  to  die. 

For  God  hath  marked  each  sorrowing  day 
And  numbered  every  secret  tear, 

And  heaven's  long  age  of  bliss  shall  pay 
For  all  his  children  suffer  here. 


"NO   MAN   KNOWETH   HIS   SEPULCHRE." 

WHEN  he,  who,  from  the*  scourge  of  wrong, 
Aroused  the  Hebrew  tribes  to  fly, 

Saw  the  fair  region,  promised  long, 
And  bowed  him  on  the  hills  to  die ; 

God  made  his  grave,  to  men  unknown, 
Where  Moab's  rocks  a  vale  infold, 

And  laid  the  aged  seer  alone 

To  slumber  while  the  world  grows  old. 


When  insect  wings  are  glistening  in  the  beam 
Of  the  low  sun,  and  mountain-tops  are  bright. 

A  WALK  AT  SUNSET,  p.  41, 


A    WALK  AT  SUNSET. 

Thus  still,  whene'er  the  good  and  just 
Close  the  dim  eye  on  life  and  pain, 

Heaven  watches  o'er  their  sleeping  dust 
Till  the  pure  spirit  comes  again. 

Though  nameless,  trampled,  and  forgot, 
His  servant's  humble  ashes  lie, 

Yet  God  hath  marked  and  sealed  the  spot, 
To  call  its  inmate  to  the  sky. 


A  WALK  AT   SUNSET. 

WHEN  insect  wings  are  glistening  in  the  beam 

Of  the  low  sun,  and  mountain-tops  are  bright, 
Oh,  let  me,  by  the  crystal  valley-stream, 

Wander  amid  the  mild  and  mellow  light ; 
And  while  the  wood-thrush  pipes  his  evening  lay, 
Give  me  one  lonely  hour  to  hymn  the  setting  day. 

Oh,  sun !  that  o'er  the  western  mountains  now 

Go'st  down  in  glory !  ever  beautiful 
And  blessed  is  thy  radiance,  whether  thou 

Colorest  the  eastern  heaven  and  night-mist  cool, 
Till  the  bright  day-star  vanish,  or  on  high 
Climbest  and  streamest  thy  white  splendors  from  mid-sky. 

Yet,  loveliest  are  thy  setting  smiles,  and  fair, 

Fairest  of  all  that  earth  beholds,  the  hues 
That  live  among  the  clouds,  and  flush  the  air, 

Lingering  and  deepening  at  the  hour  of  dews. 
Then  softest  gales  are  breathed,  and  softest  heard 
The  plaining  voice  of  streams,  and  pensive  note  of  bird. 


41 


4-2 


POEMS. 

They  who  here  roamed,  of  yore,  the  forest  wide, 

Felt,  by  such  charm,  their  simple  bosoms  won ; 
They  deemed  their  quivered  warrior,  when  he  died, 

Went  to  bright  isles  beneath  the  setting  sun ; 
Where  winds  are  aye  at  peace,  and  skies  are  fair, 
And  purple-skirted  clouds  curtain  the  crimson  air. 

So,  with  the  glories  of  the  dying  day, 

Its  thousand  trembling  lights  and  changing  hues, 
The  memory  of  the  brave  who  passed  away 
Tenderly  mingled ; — fitting  hour  to  muse 
On  such  grave  theme,  and  sweet  the  dream  that  shed 
Brightness  and  beauty  round  the  destiny  of  the  dead. 

For  ages,  on  the  silent  forests  here, 

Thy  beams  did  fall  before  the  red  man  came 
To  dwell  beneath  them ;  in  their  shade  the  deer 

Fed,  and  feared  not  the  arrow's  deadly  aim. 
Nor  tree  was  felled,  in  all  that  world  of  woods, 
Save  by  the  beaver's  tooth,  or  winds,  or  rush  of  floods. 

Then  came  the  hunter  tribes,  and  thou  didst  look, 

For  ages,  on  their  deeds  in  the  hard  chase, 
And  well-fought  wars ;  green  sod  and  silver  brook 

Took  the  first  stain  of  blood ;  before  thy  face 
The  warrior  generations  came  and  passed, 
And  glory  was  laid  up  for  many  an  age  to  last. 

Now  they  are  gone,  gone  as  thy  setting  blaze 

Goes  down  the  west,  while  night  is  pressing  on, 
And  with  them  the  old  tale  of  better  days, 

And  trophies  of  remembered  power,  are  gone. 
Yon  field  that  gives  the  harvest,  where  the  plough 
Strikes  the  white  bone,  is  all  that  tells  their  story  now. 


HYMN  TO  DEATH. 

I  stand  upon  their  ashes  in  thy  beam, 

The  offspring  of  another  race,  I  stand, 
Beside  a  stream  they  loved,  this  valley  stream  ; 

And  where  the  night-fire  of  the  quivered  band 
Showed  the  gray  oak  by  fits,  and  war-song  rung, 
I  teach  the  quiet  shades  the  strains  of  this  new  tongue. 

Farewell !  but  thou  shalt  come  again — 'thy  light 

Must  shine  on  other  changes,  and  behold 
The  place  of  the  thronged  city  still  as  night — 

States  fallen — new  empires  built  upon  the  old — 
But  never  shalt  thou  see  these  realms  again 
Darkened  by  boundless  groves,  and  roamed  by  savage  men. 


HYMN   TO   DEATH. 

OH  !  could  I  hope  the  wise  and  pure  in  heart 
Might  hear  my  song  without  a  frown,  nor  deem 
My  voice  unworthy  of  the  theme  it  tries, — 
I  would  take  up  the  hymn  to  Death,  and  say 
To  the  grim  power,  The  world  hath  slandered  thee 
And  mocked  thee.     On  thy  dim  and  shadowy  brow 
They  place  an  iron  crown,  and  call  thee  king 
Of  terrors,  and  the  spoiler  of  the  world, 
Deadly  assassin,  that  strik'st  doAvn  the  fair, 
The  loved,  the  good — that  breathest  on  the  lights 
Of  virtue  set  along  the  vale  of  life, 
And  they  go  out  in  darkness.     I  am  come, 
Not  with  reproaches,  not  with  cries  and  prayers, 
Such  as  have  stormed  thy  stern,  insensible  ear 
From  the  beginning ;  I  am  come  to  speak 
Thy  praises.     True  it  is,  that  I  have  wept 


43 


POEMS. 

Thy  conquests,  and  may  weep  them  yet  again, 

And  thou  from  some  I  love  wilt  take  a  life 

Dear  to  me  as  my  own.     Yet  while  the  spell 

Is  on  my  spirit,  and  I  talk  with  thee 

In  sight  of  all  thy  trophies,  face  to  face, 

Meet  is  it  that  my  voice  should  utter  forth 

Thy  nobler  triumphs ;  I  will  teach  the  world 

To  thank  thee.     Who  are  thine  accusers  ? — Who  ? 

The  living ! — they  who  never  felt  thy  power, 

And  know  thee  not.     The  curses  of  the  wretch 

Whose  crimes  are  ripe,  his  sufferings  when  thy  hand 

Is  on  him,  and  the  hour  he  dreads  is  come, 

Are  writ  among  thy  praises.     But  the  good — 

Does  he  whom  thy  kind  hand  dismissed  to  peace, 

Upbraid  the  gentle  violence  that  took  off 

His  fetters,  and  unbarred  his  prison-cell  ? 

Raise  then  the  hymn  to  Death.     Deliverer ! 
God  hath  anointed  thee  to  free  the  oppressed 
And  crush  the  oppressor.     When  the  armed  chief, 
The  conqueror  of  nations,  walks  the  world, 
And  it  is  changed  beneath  his  feet,  and  all 
Its  kingdoms  melt  into  one  mighty  realm — 
Thou,  while  his  head  is  loftiest  and  his  heart 
Blasphemes,  imagining  his  own  right  hand 
Almighty,  thou  dost  set  thy  sudden  grasp 
Upon  him,  and  the  links  of  that  strong  chain 
Which  bound  mankind  are  crumbled;  thou  dost  break 
Sceptre  and  crown,  and  beat  his  throne  to  dust. 
Then  the  earth  shouts  with  gladness,  and  her  tribes 
Gather  within  their  ancient  bounds  again. 
Else  had  the  mighty  of  the  olden  time, 
Nimrod,  Sesostris,  or  the  youth  who  feigned 
His  birth  from  Libyan  Ammon,  smitten  yet 


HYMN  TO  DEATH.  45 

The  nations  with  a  rod  of  iron,  and  driven 

Their  chariot  o'er  our  necks.     Thou  dost  avenge, 

In  thy  good  time,  the  wrongs  of  those  who  know 

No  other  friend.     Nor  dost  thou  interpose 

Only  to  lay  the  sufferer  asleep," 

Where  he  who  made  him  wretched  troubles  not 

His  rest — thou  dost  strike  down  his  tyrant  too. 

Oh,  there  is  joy  when  hands  that  held  the  scourge 

Drop  lifeless,  and  the  pitiless  heart  is  cold. 

Thou  too  dost  purge  from  earth  its  horrible 

And  old  idolatries ; — from  the  proud  fanes 

Each  to  his  grave  their  priests  go  out,  till  none 

Is  left  to  teach  their  worship ;  then  the  fires 

Of  sacrifice  are  chilled,  and  the  green  moss 

O'ercreeps  their  altars  ;  the  fallen  images 

Cumber  the  weedy  courts,  and  for  loud  hymns, 

Chanted  by  kneeling  multitudes,  the  wind 

Shrieks  in  the  solitary  aisles.     When  he 

Who  gives  his  life  to  guilt,  and  laughs  at  all 

The  laws  that  God  or  man  has  made,  and  round 

Hedges  his  seat  with  power,  and  shines  in  wealth, — 

Lifts  up  his  atheist  front  to  scoff  at  Heaven, 

And  celebrates  his  shame  in  open  day, 

Thou,  in  the  pride  of  all  his  crimes,  cutt'st  off 

The  horrible  example.     Touched  by  thine, 

The  extortioner's  hard  hand  foregoes  the  gold 

Wrung  from  the  o'er-worn  poor.     The  perjurer, 

Whose  tongue  was  lithe,  e'en  now,  and  voluble 

Against  his  neighbor's  life,  and  he  who  laughed 

And  leaped  for  joy  to  see  a  spotless  fame 

Blasted  before  his  own  foul  calumnies, 

Are  smit  with  deadly  silence.     He,  who  sold 

His  conscience  to  preserve  a  worthless  life, 

Even  while  he  hugs  himself  on  his  escape, 


POEMS. 

Trembles,  as,  doubly  terrible,  at  length, 

Thy  steps  o'ertake  him,  and  there  is  no  time 

For  parley,  nor  will  bribes  unclench  thy  grasp. 

Oft,  too,  dost  thou  reform  thy  victim,  long 

Ere  his  last  hour.     And  when  the  reveller, 

Mad  in  the  chase  of  pleasure,  stretches  on, 

And  strains  each  nerve,  and  clears  the  path  of  life 

Like  wind,  thou  point'st  him  to  the  dreadful  goal, 

And  shak'st  thy  hour-glass  in  his  reeling  eye, 

And  check'st  him  in  mid  course.     Thy  skeleton  hand 

Shows  to  the  faint  of  spirit  the  right  path, 

And  he  is  warned,  and  fears  to  step  aside. 

Thou  sett'st  between  the  ruffian  and  his  crime 

Thy  ghastly  countenance,  and  his  slack  hand 

Drops  the  drawn  knife.     But,  oh,  most  fearfully 

Dost  thou  show  forth  Heaven's  justice,  when  thy  shafts 

Drink  up  the  ebbing  spirit — then  the  hard 

Of  heart  and  violent  of  hand  restores 

The  treasure  to  the  friendless  wretch  he  wronged. 

Then  from  the  writhing  bosom  thou  dost  pluck 

The  guilty  secret ;  lips,  for  ages  sealed, 

Are  faithless  to  their  dreadful  trust  at  length, 

And  give  it  up ;  the  felon's  latest  breath 

Absolves  the  innocent  man  who  bears  his  crime; 

The  slanderer,  horror-smitten,  and  in  tears, 

Recalls  the  deadly  obloquy  he  forged 

To  work  his  brother's  ruin.     Thou  dost  make 

Thy  penitent  victim  utter  to  the  air 

The  dark  conspiracy  that  strikes  at  life, 

And  aims  to  whelm  the  laws  ;  ere  yet  the  hour 

Is  come,  and  the  dread  sign  of  murder  given. 

Thus,  from  the  first  of  time,  hast  thou  been  found 
On  virtue's  side ;  the  wicked,  but  for  thee, 


HYMN  TO  DEATH. 

Had  been  too  strong  for  the  good ;  the  great  of  earth 

Had  crushed  the  weak  for  ever.     Schooled  in  guile 

For  ages,  while  each  passing  year  had  brought 

Its  baneful  lesson,  they  had  filled  the  world 

With  their  abominations  ;  while  its  tribes, 

Trodden  to  earth,  imbruted,  and  despoiled, 

Had  knelt  to  them  in  worship ;  sacrifice 

Had  smoked  on  many  an  altar,  temple-roofs 

Had  echoed  with  the  blasphemous  prayer  and  hymn  : 

But  thou,  the  great  reformer  of  the  world, 

Tak'st  off  the  sons  of  violence  and  fraud 

In  their  green  pupilage,  their  lore  half  learned — 

Ere  guilt  had  quite  o'errun  the  simple  heart 

God  gave  them  at  their  birth,  and  blotted  out 

His  image.     Thou  dost  mark  them  flushed  with  hope, 

As  on  the  threshold  of  their  vast  designs 

Doubtful  and  loose  they  stand,  and  strik'st  them  down. 

Alas !  I  little  thought  that  the  stern  power, 
Whose  fearful  praise  I  sang,  would  try  me  thus 
Before  the  strain  was  ended.     It  must  cease — 
For  he  is  in  his  grave  who  taught  my  youth 
The  art  of  verse,  and  in  the  bud  of  life 
Offered  me  to  the  Muses.     Oh,  cut  off 
Untimely  !  when  thy  reason  in  its'  strength, 
Ripened  by  years  of  toil  and  studious  search, 
And  watch  of  Nature's  silent  lessons,  taught 
Thy  hand  to  practise  best  the  lenient  art 
To  which  thou  gavest  thy  laborious  days, 
And,  last,  thy  life.     And,  therefore,  when  the  earth 
Received  thee,  tears  were  in  unyielding  eyes 
And  on  hard  cheeks,  and  they  who  deemed  thy  skill 
Delayed  their  death-hour,  shuddered  and  turned  pale 
When  thou  wert  gone.     This  faltering  verse,  which  thou 


47 


48  POEMS.    • 

Shalt  not,  as  wont,  o'erlook,  is  all  I  have 
To  offer  at  thy  grave — this — and  the  hope 
To  copy  thy  example,  and  to  leave 
A  name  of  which  the  wretched  shall  not  think 
As  of  an  enemy's,  whom  they  forgive 
As  all  forgive  the  dead.     Rest,  therefore,  thou 
.    Whose  early  guidance  trained  my  infant  steps — 
Rest,  in  the  bosom  of  God,  till  the  brief  sleep 
Of  death  is  over,  and  a  happier  life 
Shall  dawn  to  waken  thine  insensible  dust. 

Now  thou  art  not — and  yet  the  men  whose  guilt 
Has  wearied  Heaven  for  vengeance — he  who  bears 
False  witness — he  who  takes  the  orphan's  bread, 
And  robs  the  widow — he  who  spreads  abroad 
Polluted  hands  in  mockery  of  prayer, 
Are  left  to  cumber  earth.     Shuddering  I  look 
On  what  is  written,  yet  I  blot  not  out 
The  desultory  numbers  ;  let  them  stand, 
The  record  of  an  idle  revery. 


THE   MASSACRE  AT   SCIO. 

WEEP  not  for  Scio's  children  slain  ; 

Their  blood,  by  Turkish  falchions  shed, 
Sends  not  its  cry  to  Heaven  in  vain 

For  vengeance  on  the  murderer's  head. 

Though  high  the  warm  red  torrent  ran 
Between  the  flames  that  lit  the  sky, 

Vet,  for  each  drop,  an  arme'd  man 
Shall  rise,  to  free  the  land,  or  die. 


Weep  not  for  Scio's  children  slain. 

THE  MASSACRE  AT  Scio,  p.  48. 


An  Indian  girl  was  sitting  where 
Her  lover,  slain  in  battle,  slept. 

THE  INDIAN  GIRL'S  LAMENT,  p.  49. 


THE  INDIAN  GIRDS  LAMENT.  49 

And  for  each  corpse,  that  in  the  sea 

Was  thrown,  to  feast  the  scaly  herds, 
A  hundred  of  the  foe  shall  be 

A  banquet  for  the  mountain-birds. 

Stern  rites  and  sad  shall  Greece  ordain 

To  keep  that  day  along  her  shore, 
Till  the  last  link  of  slavery's  chain 

Is  shattered,  to  be  worn  no  more. 


THE   INDIAN   GIRL'S   LAMENT. 

AN  Indian  girl  was  sitting  where 

Her  lover,  slain  in  battle,  slept ; 
Her  maiden  veil,  her  own  black  hair, 
•    Came  down  o'er  eyes  that  wept ; 
And  wildly,  in  her  woodland  tongue, 
This  sad  and  simple  lay  she  sung : 

"  I've  pulled  away  the  shrubs  that  grew 
Too  close  above  thy  sleeping  head, 

And  broke  the  forest-boughs  that  threw 
Their  shadows  o'er  thy  bed, 

That,  shining  from  the  sweet  southwest, 

The  sunbeams  might  rejoice  thy  rest. 

"  It  was  a  weary,  weary  road 
That  led  thee  to  the  pleasant  coast, 

Where  thou,  in  his  serene  abode, 
Hast  met  thy  father's  ghost ; 

Where  everlasting  autumn  lies 

On  yellow  woods  and  sunny  skies. 


POEMS. 

"  'Twas  I  the  broidered  mocsen  made, 
That  shod  thee  for  that  distant  land  : 

'Twas  I  thy  bow  and  arrows  laid 
Beside  thy  still  cold  hand ; 

Thy  bow  in  many  a  battle  bent, 

Thy  arrows  never  vainly  sent. 

"With  wampum-belts  I  crossed  thy  breast, 
And  wrapped  thee  in  the  bison's  hide, 

And  laid  the  food  that  pleased  thee  best, 
In  plenty,  by  thy  side, 

And  decked  thee  bravely,  as  became 

A  warrior  of  illustrious  name. 

"  Thou'rt  happy  now,  for  thou  hast  passed 
The  long  dark  journey  of  the  grave, 

And  in  the  land  of  light,  at  last, 
Hast  joined  the  good  and  brave ; 

Amid  the  flushed  and  balmy  air, 

The  bravest  and  the  loveliest  there. 

"Yet,  oft  to  thine  own  Indian  maid 

Even  there  thy  thoughts  will  earthward  stray- 
To  her  who  sits  where  thou  wert  laid, 

And  weeps  the  hours  away, 
Yet  almost  can  her  grief  forget, 
To  think  that  thou  dost  love  her  yet. 

"And  thou,  by  one  of  those  still  lakes 

That  in  a  shining  cluster  lie, 
On  which  the  south  wind  scarcely  breaks 

The  image  of  the  sky, 
A  bower  for  thee  and  me  hast  made 
Beneath  the  many-colored  shade. 


ODE  FOR  AN  AGRICULTURAL  CELEBRATION. 

"And  thou  dost  wait  and  watch  to  meet 
My  spirit  sent  to  join  the  blessed, 

And,  wondering  what  detains  my  feet 
From  that  bright  land  of  rest, 

Dost  seem,  in  every  sound,  to  hear 

The  rustling  of  my  footsteps  near." 


ODE   FOR  AN   AGRICULTURAL   CELEBRATION. 

FAR  back  in  the  ages, 

The  plough  with  wreaths  was  crowned ; 
The  hands  of  kings  and  sages 

Entwined  the  chaplet  round ; 
Till  men  of  spoil  disdained  the  toil 

By  which  the  world  was  nourished, 
And  dews  of  blood  enriched  the  soil 

Where  green  their  laurels  flourished. 
— Now  the  world  her  fault  repairs — 

The  guilt  that  stains  her  story ; 
And  weeps  her  crimes  amid  the  cares 

That  formed  her  earliest  glory. 

The  proud  throne  shall  crumble, 

The  diadem  shall  wane, 
The  tribes  of  earth  shall  humble 

The  pride  of  those  who  reign ; 
And  War  shall  lay  his  pomp  away, — 

The  fame  that  heroes  cherish, 
The  glory  earned  in  deadly  fray 

Shall  fade,  decay,  and  perish. 


52  POEMS. 


Honor  waits,  o'er  all  the  earth, 
Through  endless  generations, 

The  art  that  calls  her  harvests  forth, 
And  feeds  th'  expectant  nations. 


RIZPAH. 

And  he  delivered  them  into  the  hands  of  the  Gibeonites,  and  they  hanged 
them  in  the  hill  before  the  Lord  ;  and  they  fell  all  seven  together,  and  were  put 
to  death  in  the  days  of  the  harvest,  in  the  first  days,  in  the  beginning  of  barley- 
harvest. 

And  Rizpah,  the  daughter  of  Aiah,  took  sackcloth,  and  spread  it  for  her  upon 
the  rock,  from  the  beginning  of  harvest  until  the  water  dropped  upon  them  out 
of  heaven,  and  suffered  neither  the  birds  of  the  air  to  rest  upon  them  by  day,  nor 
the  beasts  of  the  field  by  night.  2  SAMUEL,  xxi.  10. 

HEAR  what  the  desolate  Rizpah  said, 
As  on  Gibeah's  rocks  she  watched  the  dead. 
The  sons  of  Michal  before  her  lay, 
And  her  own  fair  children,  dearer  than  they  : 
By  a  death  of  shame  they  all  had  died, 
And  were  stretched  on  the  bare  rock,  side  by  side. 
And  Rizpah,  once  the  loveliest  of  all 
That  bloomed  and  smiled  in  the  court  of  Saul, 
All  wasted  with  watching  and  famine  now, 
And  scorched  by  the  sun  her  haggard  brow, 
Sat  mournfully  guarding  their  corpses  there, 
And  murmured  a  strange  and  solemn  air ; 
The  low,  heart-broken,  and  wailing  strain 
Of  a  mother  that  mourns  her  children  slain  : 

"  I  have  made  the  crags  my  home,  and  spread 
On  their  desert  backs  my  sackcloth  bed ; 


RIZPAH.  53 

I  have  eaten  the  bitter  herb  of  the  rocks, 

And  drunk  the  midnight  dew  in  my  locks ; 

I  have  wept  till  I  could  not  weep,  and  the  pain 

Of  my  burning  eyeballs  went  to  my  brain. 

Seven  blackened  corpses  before  me  lie, 

In  the  blaze  of  the  sun  and  the  winds  of  the  sky. 

I  have  watched  them  through  the  burning  day, 

And  driven  the  vulture  and  raven  away ; 

And  the  cormorant  wheeled  in  circles  round, 

Yet  feared  to  alight  on  the  guarded  ground. 

And  when  the  shadows  of  twilight  came, 

I  have  seen  the  hyena's  eyes  of  flame, 

And  heard  at  my  side  his  stealthy  tread, 

But  aye  at  my  shout  the  savage  fled : 

And  I  threw  the  lighted  brand  to  fright 

The  jackal  and  wolf  that  yelled  in  the  night. 

"Ye  were  foully  murdered,  my  hapless  sons, 
By  the  hands  of  wicked  and  cruel  ones ; 
Ye  fell,  in  your  fresh  and  blooming  prime, 
All  innocent,  for  your  father's  crime. 
He  sinned — but  he  paid  the  price  of  his  guilt 
When  his  blood  by  a  nameless  hand  was  spilt ; 
When  he  strove  with  the  heathen  host  in  vain, 
And  fell  with  the  flower  of  his  people  slain, 
And  the  sceptre  his  children's  hands  should  sway 
From  his  injured  lineage  passed  away. 

"  But  I  hoped  that  the  cottage-roof  would  be 
A  safe  retreat  for  my  sons  and  me ; 
And  that  while  they  ripened  to  manhood  fast, 
They  should  wean  my  thoughts  from  the  woes  of  the  past ; 
And  my  bosom  swelled  with  a  mother's  pride, 
As  they  stood  in  their  beauty  and  strength  by  my  side, 


POEMS. 

Tall  like  their  sire,  with  the  princely  grace 
Of  his  stately  form,  and  the  bloom  of  his  face. 

"  Oh,  what  an  hour  for  a  mother's  heart, 
When  the  pitiless  ruffians  tore  us  apart ! 
When  I  clasped  their  knees  and  wept  and  prayed, 
And  struggled  and  shrieked  to  Heaven  for  aid, 
And  clung  to  my  sons  with  desperate  strength, 
Till  the  murderers  loosed  my  hold  at  length, 
And  bore  me  breathless  and  faint  aside, 
In  their  iron  arms,  while  my  children  died. 
They  died — and  the  mother  that  gave  them  birth 
Is  forbid  to  cover  their  bones  with  earth. 

"The  barley-harvest  was  nodding  white, 
When  my  children  died  on  the  rocky  height, 
And  the  reapers  were  singing  on  hill  and  plain, 
Wrhen  I  came  to  my  task  of  sorrow  and  pain. 
But  now  the  season  of  rain  is  nigh, 
The  sun  is  dim  in  the  thickening  sky, 
And  the  clouds  in  sullen  darkness  rest 
Where  he  hides  his  light  at  the  doors  of  the 
I  hear  the  howl  of  the  wind  that  brings 
The  long  drear  storm  on  its  heavy  wings ; 
But  the  howling  wind  and  the  driving  rain 
Will  beat  on  my  houseless  head  in  vain  : 
I  shall  stay,  from  my  murdered  sons  to  scare 
The  beasts  of  the  desert,  and  fowls  of  air." 


THE  OLD  MAN'S  FUNERAL. 


THE   OLD  MAN'S   FUNERAL. 

I  SAW  an  aged  man  upon  his  bier, 

His  hair  was  thin  and  white,  and  on  his  brow 

A  record  of  the  cares  of  many  a  year ; — 
Cares  that  were  ended  and  forgotten  now. 

And  there  was  sadness  round,  and  faces  bowed, 

And  woman's  tears  fell  fast,  and  children  wailed  aloud. 

Then  rose  another  hoary  man  and  said, 
In  faltering  accents,  to  that  weeping  train  : 

"  Why  mourn  ye  that  our  aged  friend  is  dead  ? 
Ye  are  not  sad  to  see  the  gathered  grain, 

Nor  when  their  mellow  fruit  the  orchards  cast, 

Nor  when  the  yellow  woods  let  fall  the  ripened  mast. 

"Ye  sigh  not  when  the  sun,  his  course  fulfilled, 
His  glorious  course,  rejoicing  earth  and  sky, 

In  the  soft  evening,  when  the  winds  are  stilled, 
Sinks  where  his  islands  of  refreshment  lie, 

And  leaves  the  smile  of  his  departure,  spread 

O'er  the  warm-colored  heaven  and  ruddy  mountain  head. 

"  Why  weep  ye  then  for  him,  who,  having  won 
The  bound  of  man's  appointed  years,  at  last, 

Life's  blessings  all  enjoyed,  life's  labors  done, 
Serenely  to  his  final  rest  has  passed ; 

While  the  soft  memory  of  his  virtues,  yet, 

Lingers  like  twilight  hues,  when  the  bright  sun  is  set  ? 

" His  youth  was  innocent;  his  riper  age 
Marked  with  some  act  of  goodness  every  day ; 

And  watched  by  eyes  that  loved  him,  calm  and  sage, 
Faded  his  late  declining  years  away. 


55 


56  POEMS. 

Meekly  he  gave  his  being  up,  and  went 
To  share  the  holy  rest  that  waits  a  life  well  spent. 

"That  life  was  happy;  every  day  he  gave 
Thanks  for  the  fair  existence  that  was  his ; 

For  a  sick  fancy  made  him  not  her  slave, 
To  mock  him  with  her  phantom  miseries. 

No  chronic  tortures  racked  his  aged  limb, 

For  luxury  and  sloth  had  nourished  none  for  him. 

"And  I  am  glad  that  he  has  lived  thus  long, 
And  glad  that  he  has  gone  to  his  reward ; 

Nor  can  I  deem  that  Nature  did  him  wrong, 
Softly  to  disengage  the  vital  cord. 

For  when  his  hand  grew  palsied,  and  his  eye 

Dark  with  the  mists  of  age,  it  was'fiis  time  to  die." 


THE  RIVULET. 

THIS  little  rill,  that  from  the  springs 
Of  yonder  grove  its  current  brings, 
Plays  on  the  slope  awhile,  and  then 
Goes  prattling  into  groves  again, 
Oft  to  its  warbling  waters  drew 
My  little  feet,  when  life  was  new. 
When  woods  in  early  green  were  dressed, 
And  from  the  chambers  of  the  west 
The  warmer  breezes,  travelling  out, 
Breathed  the  new  scent  of  flowers  about, 
My  truant  steps  from  home  would  stray, 
Upon  its  grassy  side  to  play, 


THE  RIVULET.  57 

List  the  brown  thrasher's  vernal  hymn, 
And  crop  the  violet  on  its  brim, 
With  blooming  cheek  and  open  brow, 
As  young  and  gay,  sweet  rill,  as  thou. 

And  when  the  days  of  boyhood  came, 
And  I  had  grown  in  love  with  fame, 
Duly  I  sought  thy  banks,  and  tried 
My  first  rude  numbers  by  thy  side. 
Words  cannot  tell  how  bright  and  gay 
The  scenes  of  life  before  me  lay. 
Then  glorious  hopes,  that  now  to  speak 
Would  bring  the  blood  into  my  cheek, 
Passed  o'er  me ;  and  I  wrote,  on  high, 
A  name  I  deemed  should  never  die. 

Years  change  thee  not.     Upon  yon  hill 
The  tall  old  maples,  verdant  still, 
Yet  tell,  in  grandeur  of  decay, 
How  swift  the  years  have  passed  away, 
Since  first,  a  child,  and  half  afraid, 
I  wandered  in  the  forest  shade. 
Thou,  ever-joyous  rivulet, 
Dost  dimple,  leap,  and  prattle  yet ; 
And  sporting  with  the  sands  that  pave 
The  windings  of  thy  silver  wave, 
And  dancing  to  thy  own  wild  chime, 
Thou  laughest  at  the  lapse  of  time. 
The  same  sweet  sounds  are  in  my  ear 
My  early  childhood  loved  to  hear ; 
As  pure  thy  limpid  waters  run ; 
As  bright  they  sparkle  to  the  sun ; 
As  fresh  and  thick  the  bending  ranks 
Of  herbs  that  line  thy  oozy  banks  ; 


5 »  POEMS. 


The  violet  there,  in  soft  May  dew, 
Comes  up,  as  modest  and  as  blue ; 
As  green  amid  thy  current's  stress, 
Floats  the  scarce-rooted  watercress  : 
And  the  brown  ground-bird,  in  thy  glen, 
Still  chirps  as  merrily  as  then. 

Thou  changest  not — but  I  am  changed 
Since  first  thy  pleasant  banks  I  ranged  ; 
And  the  grave  stranger,  come  to  see 
The  play-place  of  his  infancy, 
Has  scarce  a  single  trace  of  him 
Who  sported  once  upon  thy  brim. 
The  visions  of  my  youth  are  past — 
Too  bright,  too  beautiful  to  last. 
I've  tried  the  world — it  wears  no  more 
The  coloring  of  romance  it  wore. 
Yet  well  has  Nature  kept  the  truth 
She  promised  in  my  earliest  youth. 
The  radiant  beauty  shed  abroad 
On  all  the  glorious  works  of  God, 
Shows  freshly,  to  my  sobered  eye, 
Each  charm  it  wore  in  days  gone  by. 

Yet  a  few  years  shall  pass  away, 
And  I,  all  trembling,  weak,  and  gray, 
Bowed  to  the  earth,  which  waits  to  fold 
My  ashes  in  the  embracing  mould, 
(If  haply  the  dark  will  of  Fate 
Indulge  my  life  so  long  a  date), 
May  come  for  the  last  time  to  look 
Upon  my  childhood's  favorite  brook. 
Then  dimly  on  my  eye  shall  gleam 
The  sparkle  of  thy  dancing  stream ; 


MARCH. 

And  faintly  on  my  ear  shall  fall 
Thy  prattling  current's  merry  call ; 
Yet  shalt  thou  flow  as  glad  and  bright 
As  when  thou  met'st  my  infant  sight. 

And  I  shall  sleep — and  .on  thy  side, 
As  ages  after  ages  glide, 
Children  their  early  sports  shall  try, 
And  pass  to  hoary  age  and  die. 
But  thou,  unchanged  from  year  to  year, 
Gayly  shalt  play  and  glitter  here ; 
Amid  young  flowers  and  tender  grass 
Thy  endless  infancy  shall  pass ; 
And,  singing  down  thy  narrow  glen, 
Shalt  mock  the  fading  race  of  men. 


MARCH. 

THE  stormy  March  is  come  at  last, 

With  wind,  and  cloud,  and  changing  skies 

I  hear  the  rushing  of  the  blast, 
That  through  the  snowy  valley  flies. 

Ah,  passing  few  are  they  who  speak, 
Wild,  stormy  month  J  in  praise  of  thee ; 

Yet,  though  thy  winds  are  loud  and  bleak, 
Thou  art  a  welcome  month  to  me. 

For  thou,  to  northern  lands,  again 
The  glad  and  glorious  sun  dost  bring, 

And  thou  hast  joined  the  gentle  train 
And  wear'st  the  gentle  name  of  Spring. 


60  POEMS. 

And,  in  thy  reign  of  blast  and  storm, 
Smiles  many  a  long,  bright,  sunny  dayr 

When  the  changed  winds  are  soft  and  warm, 
And  heaven  puts  on  the  blue  of  May. 

Then  sing  aloud  the  gushing  rills 
In  joy  that  they  again  are  free, 

And,  brightly  leaping  down  the  hills, 
Renew  their  journey  to  the  sea. 

The  year's  departing  beauty  hides 
Of  wintry  storms  the  sullen  threat ; 

But  in  thy  sternest  frown  abides 
A  look  of  kindly  promise  yet. 

Thou  bring'st  the  hope  of  those  calm  skies, 
And  that  soft  time  of  sunny  showers, 

When  the  wide  bloom,  on  earth  that  lies, 
Seems  of  a  brighter  world  than  ours. 


CONSUMPTION. 

AY,  thou  art  for  the  grave ;  thy  glances  shine 

Too  brightly  to  shine  long;  another  Spring 
Shall  deck  her  for  men's  eyes — but  not  for  thine — 

Sealed  in  a  sleep  which  knows  no  wakening. 
The  fields  for  thee  have  no  medicinal  leaf, 

And  the  vexed  ore  no  mineral  of  power; 
And  they  who  love  thee-wait  in  anxious  grief 

Till  the  slow  plague  shall  bring  the  fatal  hour. 


AN  INDIAN  STORY.  6l 

Glide  softly  to  thy  rest  then  ;  Death  should  come 

Gently,  to  one  of  gentle  mould  like  thee, 
As  light  winds  wandering  through  groves  of  bloom 

Detach  the  delicate  blossom  from  the  tree. 
Close  thy  sweet  eyes,  calmly,  and  without  pain ; 
And  we  will  trust  in  God  to  see  thee  yet  again. 


AN   INDIAN   STORY. 

"  I  KNOW  where  the  timid  fawn  abides 

In  the  depths  of  the  shaded  dell, 
Where  the  leaves  are  broad  and  the  thicket  hides, 
With  its  many  stems  and  its  tangled  sides, 

From  the  eye  of  the  hunter  well. 

"  I  know  where  the  young  May  violet  grows, 

In  its  lone  and  lowly  nook, 
On  the  mossy  bank,  where  the  larch-tree  throws 
Its  broad  dark  boughs,  in  solemn  repose, 

Far  over  the  silent  brook. 

"And  that  timid  fawn  starts  not  with  fear 

When  I  steal  to  her  secret  bower ; 
And  tjiat  young  May  violet  to  me  is  dear, 
And  I  visit  the  silent  streamlet  near, 

To  look  on  the  lovely  flower." 

Thus  Maquon  sings  as  he  lightly  walks 
To  the  hunting-ground  on  the  hills  ; 
'Tis  a  song  of  his  maid  of  the  woods  and  rocks, 
With  her  bright  black  eyes  and  long  -black  locks, 
And  voice  like  the  music  of  rills. 


6  2  POEMS. 

He  goes  to  the  chase — but  evil  eyes 

Are  at  watch  in  the  thicker  shades ; 
For  she  was  lovely  that  smiled  on  his  sighs, 
And  he  bore,  from  a  hundred  lovers,  his  prize, 
The  flower  of  the  forest  maids. 

The  boughs  in  the  morning  wind  are  stirred, 

And  the  woods  their  song  renew, 
With  the  early  carol  of  many  a  bird, 
And  the  quickened  tune  of  the  streamlet  heard 

Where  the  hazels  trickle  with  dew. 

And  Maquon  has  promised  his  dark-haired  maid, 

Ere  eve  shall  redden  the  sky, 
A  good  red  deer  from  the  forest  shade, 
That  bounds  with  the  herd  through  grove  and  glade, 

At  her  cabin-door  shall  lie. 

The  hollow  woods,  in  the  setting  sun, 

Ring  shrill  with  the  fire-bird's  lay ; 
And  Maquon's  sylvan  labors  are  done, 
And  his  shafts  are  spent,  but  the  spoil  they  won 

He  bears  on  his  homeward  way. 

He  stops  near  his  bower — his  eye  perceives 

Strange  traces  along  the  ground — 
At  once  to  the  earth  his  burden  he  heaves  ; 
He  breaks  through  the  veil  of  boughs  and  leaves  ; 

And  gains  its  door  with  a  bound. 

But  the  vines  are  torn  on  its  walls  that  leant, 

And  all  from  the  young  shrubs  there 
By  struggling  hands  have  the  leaves  been  rent, 
And  there  Hangs  on  the  sassafras,  broken  and  bent, 
One  tress  of  the  well-known  hair. 


AN  INDIAN  STORY.  63 

But  where  is  she  who,  at  this  calm  hour, 

Ever  watched  his  coming  to  see  ? 
She  is  not  at  the  door,  nor  yet  in  the  bower ; 
He  calls — but  he  only  hears  on  the  flower 

The  hum  of  the  laden  bee. 

It  is  not  a  time  for  idle  grief, 

Nor  a  time  for  tears  to  flow ; 
The  horror  that  freezes  his  limbs  is  brief — 
He  grasps  his  war-axe  and  bow,  and  a  sheaf 

Of  darts  made  sharp  for  the  foe. 

And  he  looks  for  the  print  of  the  ruffian's  feet 

Where  he  bore  the  maiden  away ; 
And  he  darts  on  the  fatal  path  more  fleet 
Than  the  blast  hurries  the  vapor  and  sleet 

O'er  the  wild  November  day. 

'Twas  early  summer  when  Maquon's  bride 

Was  stolen  away  from  his  door  ; 
But  at  length  the  maples  in  crimson  are  dyed, 
And  the  grape  is  black  on  the  cabin-side — 

And  she  smiles  at  his  hearth  once  more. 

But  far  in  the  pine-grove,  dark  and  cold, 

Where  the  yellow  leaf  falls  not, 
Nor  the  autumn  shines  in  scarlet  and  gold, 
There  lies  a  hillock  of  fresh  dark  mould, 

In  the  deepest  gloom  of  the  spot. 

And  the  Indian  girls,  that  pass  that  way, 

Point  out  the  ravisher's  grave ; 
"  And  how  soon  to  the  bower  she  loved,"  they  say, 
"  Returned  the  maid  that  was  borne  away 

From  Maquon,  the  fond  and  the  brave." 


POEMS. 


SUMMER  WIND. 

IT  is  a  sultry  day ;  the  sun  has  drunk 
The  dew  that  lay  upon  the  morning  grass  ; 
There  is  no  rustling  in  the  lofty  elm 
That  canopies  my  dwelling,  and  its  shade 
Scarce  cools  me.     All  is  silent,  save  the  faint 
And  interrupted  murmur  of  the  bee, 
Settling  on  the  sick  flowers,  and  then  again 
Instantly  on  the  wing.     The  plants  around 
Feel  the  too  potent  fervors  :  the  tall  maize 
Rolls  up  its  long  green  leaves ;  the  clover  droops 
Its  tender  foliage,  and  declines  its  blooms. 
But  far  in  the  fierce  sunshine  tower  the  hills, 
With  all  their  growth  of  woods,  silent  and  stern, 
As  if  the  scorching  heat  and  dazzling  light 
Were  but  an  element  they  loved.     Bright  clouds, 
Motionless  pillars  of  the  brazen  heaven — 
Their  bases  on  the  mountains — their  white  tops 
Shining  in  the  far  ether — fire  the  air 
With  a  reflected  radiance,  and  make  turn 
The  gazer's  eye  away.     For  me,  I  lie 
Languidly  in  the  shade,  where  the  thick  turf, 
Yet  virgin  from  the  kisses  of  the  sun, 
Retains  some  freshness,  and  I  woo  the  wind 
That  still  delays  his  coming.     Why  so  slow, 
Gentle  and  voluble  spirit  of  the  air  ? 
Oh,  come  and  breathe  upon  the  fainting  earth 
Coolness  and  life.     Is  it  that  in  his  caves 
He  hears  me  ?     See,  on  yonder  woody  ridge, 
The  pine  is  bending  his  proud  top,  and  now 
Among  the  nearer  groves,  chestnut  and  oak 
Are  tossing  their  green  boughs  about.     He  comes  ; 


AN  INDIAN  AT  THE  BURIAL-PLACE.         65 

Lo,  where  the  grassy  meadow  runs  in  waves  ! 
The  deep  distressful  silence  of  the  scene 
Breaks  up  with  mingling  of  unnumbered  sounds 
And  universal  motion.     He  is  come, 
Shaking  a  shower  of  blossoms  from  the  shrubs, 
And  bearing  on  their  fragrance ;  and  he  brings 
Music  of  birds,  and  rustling  of  young  boughs, 
And  sound  of  swaying  branches,  and  the  voice 
Of  distant  waterfalls.     All  the  green  herbs 
Are  stirring  in  his  breath ;  a  thousand  flowers, 
By  the  road-side  and  the  borders  of  the  brook, 
Nod  gayly  to  each  other ;  glossy  leaves 
Are  twinkling  in  the  sun,  as  if  the  dew 
Were  on  them  yet,  and  silver  waters  break 
Into  small  waves  and  sparkle  as  he  comes. 


INDIAN    AT     THE    BURIAL-PLACE    OF     HIS 
FATHERS. 

IT  is  the  spot  I  came  to  seek — 

My  fathers'  ancient  burial-place, 
Ere  from  these  vales,  ashamed  and  weak, 

Withdrew  our  wasted  race. 
It  is  the  spot — I  know  it  well — 
Of  which  our  old  traditions  tell. 

For  here  the  upland  bank  sends  out 

A  ridge  toward  the  river-side  ; 
I  know  the  shaggy  hills  about, 

The  meadows  smooth  and  wide, 
The  plains,  that,  toward  the  southern  sky, 
Fenced  east  and  west  by  mountains  lie. 


66  POEMS. 


A  white  man,  gazing  on  the  scene, 
Would  say  a  lovely  spot  was  here, 

And  praise  the  lawns,  so  fresh  and  green, 
Between  the  hills  so  sheer. 

I  like  it  not — I  would  the  plain 

Lay  in  its  tall  old  groves  again. 

The  sheep  are  on  the  slopes  around, 
The  cattle  in  the  meadows  feed, 

And  laborers  turn  the  crumbling  ground, 
Or  drop  the  yellow  seed, 

And  prancing  steeds,  in  trappings  gay, 

Whirl  the  bright  chariot  o'er  the  way. 

Methinks  it  were  a  nobler  sight 
To  see  these  vales  in  woods  arrayed, 

Their  summits  in  the  golden  light, 
Their  trunks  in  grateful  shade, 

And  herds  of  deer  that  bounding  go 

O'er  hills  and  prostrate  trees  below. 

And  then  to  mark  the  lord  of  all, 
The  forest  hero,  trained  to  wars, 

Quivered  and  plumed,  and  lithe  and  tall, 
And  seamed  with  glorious  scars, 

Walk  forth,  amid  his  reign,  to  dare 

The  wolf,  and  grapple  with  the  bear. 

This  bank,  in  which  the  dead  were  laid, 
Was  sacred  when  its  soil  was  ours  ; 

Hither  the  silent  Indian  maid 
Brought  wreaths  of  beads  and  flowers, 

And  the  gray  chief  and  gifted  seer 

Worshipped  the  god  of  thunders  here. 


AN  INDIAN  AT  THE  BURIAL-PLACE.          67 

But  now  the  wheat  is  green  and  high 
On  clods  that  hid  the  warrior's  breast, 

And  scattered  in  the  furrows  lie 
The  weapons  of  his  rest ; 

And  there,  in  the  loose  sand,  is  thrown 

Of  his  large  arm  the  mouldering  bone. 

Ah,  little  thought  the  strong  and  brave 
Who  bore  their  lifeless  chieftain  forth — 

Or  the  young  wife  that  weeping  gave 
Her  first-born  to  the  earth, 

That  the  pale  race,  who  waste  us  now, 

Among  their  bones  should  guide  the  plough. 

They  waste  us — ay — like  April  snow 

In  the  warm  noon,  we  shrink  away ; 
And  fast  they  follow,  as  we  go 

Toward  the  setting  day — 
Till  they  shall  fill  the  land,  and  we 
Are  driven  into  the  Western  sea. 

But  I  behold  a  fearful  sign, 

To  which  the  white  men's  eyes  are  blind ; 
Their  race  may  vanish  hence,  like  mine, 

And  leave  no  trace  behind, 
Save  ruins  o'er  the  region  spread, 
And  the  white  stones  above  the  dead. 

Before  these  fields  were  shorn  and  tilled, 

Full  to  the  brim  our  rivers  flowed ; 
The  melody  of  waters  filled 

The  fresh  and  boundless  wood ; 
And  torrents  dashed  and  rivulets  played, 
And  fountains  spouted  in  the  shade. 


68  POEMS. 


Those  grateful  sounds  are  heard  no  more, 
The  springs  are  silent  in  the  sun ; 

The  rivers,  by  the  blackened  shore, 
With  lessening  current  run ; 

The  realm  our  tribes  are  crushed  to  get 

May  be  a  barren  desert  yet. 


SONG. 

DOST  thou  idly  ask  to  hear 

At  what  gentle  seasons 
Nymphs  relent,  when  lovers  near 

Press  the  tenderest  reasons  ? 
Ah,  they  give  their  faith  too  oft 

To  the  careless  wooer; 
Maiden's  hearts  are  always  soft : 

Would  that  men's  were  truer ! 

Woo  the  fair  one  when  around 

Early  birds  are  singing;      » 
When,  o'er  all  the  fragrant  ground, 

Early  herbs  are  springing : 
When  the  brookside,  bank,  and  grove, 

All  with  blossoms  laden, 
Shine  with  beauty,  breathe  of  love, — 

Woo  the  timid  maiden. 

Woo  her  when,  with  rosy  blush, 

Summer  eve  is  sinking; 
When,  on  rills  that  softly  gush, 

Stars  are  softly  winking; 


HYMN  OF  THE    WALDENSES.  69 

When  through  boughs  that  knit  the  bower 

Moonlight  gleams  are  stealing; 
Woo  her,  till  the  gentle  hour 

Wake  a  gentler  feeling. 

Woo  her,  when  autumnal  dyes 

Tinge  the  woody  mountain ; 
When  the  dropping  foliage  lies 

In  the  weedy  fountain ; 
Let  the  scene,  that  tells  how  fast 

Youth  is  passing  over, 
Warn  her,  ere  her  bloom  is  past, 

To  secure  her  lover. 

Woo  her  when  the  north  winds  call 

At  the  lattice  nightly ; 
When,  within  the  cheerful  hall, 

Blaze  the  fagots  brightly ; 
While  the  wintry  tempest  round 

Sweeps  the  landscape  hoary, 
Sweeter  in  her  ear  shall  sound  ' 

Love's  delightful  story. 


HYMN   OF   THE  WALDENSES. 

HEAR,  Father,  hear  thy  faint  afflicted  flock 
Cry  to  thee,  from  the  desert  and  the  rock ; 
While  those,  who  seek  to  slay  thy  children,  hold 
Blasphemous  worship  under  roofs  of  gold ; 
And  the  broad  goodly  lands,  with  pleasant  airs 
That  nurse  the  grape  and  wave  the  grain,  are  theirs. 


;o  POEMS. 

Yet  better  were  this  mountain  wilderness, 
And  this  wild  life  of  danger  and  distress — 
Watchings  by  night  and  perilous  flight  by  day, 
And  meetings  in  the  depths  of  earth  to  pray — 
Better,  far  better,  than  to  kneel  with  them, 
And  pay  the  impious  rite  thy  laws  condemn. 

Thou,  Lord,  dost  hold  the  thunder ;  the  firm  land 
Tosses  in  billows  when  it  feels  thy  hand ; 
Thou  dashest  nation  against  nation,  then 
Stillest  the  angry  world  to  peace  again. 
Oh,  touch  their  stony  hearts  who  hunt  thy  sons — 
The  murderers  of  our  wives  and  little  ones. 

Yet,  mighty  God,  yet  shall  thy  frown  look  forth 
Unveiled,  and  terribly  shall  shake  the  earth. 
Then  the  foul  power  of  priestly  sin  and  all 
Its  long-upheld  idolatries  shall  fall. 
Thou  shalt  raise  up  the  trampled  and  oppressed, 
And  thy  delivered  saints  shall  dwell  in  rest. 


MONUMENT   MOUNTAIN. 

THOU  who  wouldst  see  the  lovely  and  the  wild 
Mingled  in  harmony  on  Nature's  face, 
Ascend  our  rocky  mountains.     Let  thy  foot 
Fail  not  with  weariness,  for  on  their  tops 
The  beauty  and  the  majesty  of  earth, 
Spread  wide  beneath,  shall  make  thee  to  forget 
The  steep  and  toilsome  way.     There,  as  thou  stand'st, 
The  haunts  of  men  below  thee,  and  around 


72  POEMS. 

Wanders  amid  the  fresh  and  fertile  meads, 

The  paradise  he  made  unto  himself, 

Mining  the  soil  for  ages.     On  each  side 

The  fields  swell  upward  to  the  hills ;  beyond, 

Above  the  hills,  in  the  blue  distance,  rise 

The  mountain-columns  with  which  earth  props  heaven. 

There  is  a  tale  about  these  reverend  rocks, 
A  sad  tradition  of  unhappy  love, 
And  sorrows  borne  and  ended,  long  ago, 
When  over  these  fair  vales  the  savage  sought 
His  game  in  the  thick  woods.     There  was  a  maid, 
The  fairest  of  the  Indian  maids,  bright-eyed, 
With  wealth  of  raven  tresses,  a  light  form, 
And  a  gay  heart.     About  her  cabin-door 
The  wide  old  woods  resounded  with  her  song 
And  fairy  laughter  all  the  summer  day. 
She  lovepl  her  cousin ;  such  a  love  was  deemed, 
By  the  morality  of  those  stern  tribes, 
Incestuous,  and  she  struggled  hard  and  long 
Against  her  love,  and  reasoned  with  her  heart, 
As  simple  Indian  maiden  might.     In  vain. 
Then  her  eye  lost  its  lustre,  and  her  step 
Its  lightness,  and  the  gray-haired  men  that  passed 
Her  dwelling,  wondered  that  they  heard  no  more 
The  accustomed  song  and  laugh  of  her,  whose  looks 
Were  like  the  cheerful  smile  of  Spring,  they  said, 
Upon  the  Winter  of  their  age.     She  went 
To  weep  where  no  eye  saw,  and  was  not  found 
When  all  the  merry  girls  were  met  to  dance, 
And  all  the  hunters  of  the  tribe  were  out ; 
Nor  when  they  gathered  from  the  rustling  husk 
The  shining  ear;  nor  when,  by  the  river's  side, 
They  pulled  the  grape  and  startled  the  wild  shades 


MONUMENT  MOUNTAIN.  73 

With  sounds  of  mirth.     The  keen-eyed  Indian  dames 
Would  whisper  to  each  other,  as  they  saw 
Her  wasting  form,  and  say,  The  girl  'will  die 

One  day  into  the  bosom  of  a  friend, 
A  playmate  of  her  young  and  innocent  years, 
She  poured  her  griefs.     "  Thou  know'st,  and  thou  alone," 
She  said,  "for  I  have  told  thee,  all  my  love, 
And  guilt,  and  sorrow.     I  am  sick  of  life. 
All  night  I  weep  in  darkness,  and  the  morn 
Glares  on  me,  as  upon  a  thing  accursed, 
That  has  no  business  on  the  earth.     I  hate 
The  pastimes  and  the  pleasant  toils  that  once 
I  loved ;  the  cheerful  voices  of  my  friends 
Sound  in  my  ear  like  mockings,  and,  at  night, 
In  dreams,  my  mother,  from  the  land  of  souls, 
Calls  me  and  chides  me.     All  that  look  on  me 
Do  seem  to  know  my  shame ;  I  cannot  bear 
Their  eyes ;  I  cannot  from  my  heart  root  out 
The  love  that  wrings  it  so,  and  I  must  die." 

It  was  a  summer  morning,  and  they  went 
To  this  old  precipice.     About  the  cliffs 
Lay  garlands,  ears  of  maize,  and  shaggy  skins 
Of  wolf  and  bear,  the  offerings  of  the  tribe 
Here  made  to  the  Great  Spirit,  for  they  deemed, 
Like  worshippers  of  the  elder  time,  that  God 
Doth  walk  on  the  high  places  and  affect 
The  earth-o'erlooking  mountains.     She  had  on 
The  ornaments  with  which  her  father  loved 
To  deck  the  beauty  of  his  bright-eyed  girl, 
And  bade  her  wear  when  stranger  warriors  came 
To  be  his  guests.     Here  the  friends  sat  them  down, 
And  sang,  all  day,  old  songs  of  love  and  death, 


74 


POEMS. 

And  decked  the  poor  wan  victim's  hair  with  flowers, 

And  prayed  that  safe  and  swift  might  be  her  way 

To  the  calm  world  of  sunshine,  where  no  grief 

Makes  the  heart  heavy  and  the  eyelids  red. 

Beautiful  lay  the  region  of  her  tribe 

Below  her — waters  resting  in  the  embrace 

Of  the  wide  forest,  and  maize-planted  glades 

Opening  amid  the  leafy  wilderness. 

She  gazed  upon  it  long,  and  at  the  sight 

Of  her  own  village  peeping  through  the  trees, 

And  her  own  dwelling,  and  the  cabin  roof 

Of  him  she  loved  with  an  unlawful  love, 

And  came  to  die  for,  a  warm  gush  of  tears 

Ran  from  her  eyes.     But  when  the  sun  grew  low 

And  the  hill  shadows  long,  she  threw  herself 

From  the  steep  rock  and  perished.     There  was  scooped, 

Upon  the  mountain's  southern  slope,  a  grave ; 

And  there  they  laid  her,  in  the  very  garb 

With  which  the  maiden  decked  herself  for  death, 

With  the  same  withering  wild-flowers  in  her  hair. 

And  o'er  the  mould  that  covered  her,  the  tribe 

Built  up  a  simple  monument,  a  cone 

Of  small  loose  stones.     Thenceforward  all  who  passed, 

Hunter,  and  dame,  and  virgin,  laid  a  stone 

In  silence  on  the  pile.     It  stands  there  yet. 

And  Indians  from  the  distant  West,  who  come 

To  visit  where  their  fathers'  bones  are  laid, 

Yet  tell  the  sorrowful  tale,  and  to  this  day 

The  mountain  where  the  hapless  maiden  died 

Is  called  the  Mountain  of  the  Monument. 


AFTER  A    TEMPEST.  75 


AFTER  A   TEMPEST. 

THE  day  had  been  a  day  of  wind  and  storm, 
The  wind  was  laid,  the  storm  was  overpast, 
And  stooping  from  the  zenith,  bright  and  warm, 
Shone  the  great  sun  on  the  wide  earth  at  last. 
I  stood  upon  the  upland  slope,  and  cast 
Mine  eye  upon  a  broad  and  beauteous  scene, 
Where  the  vast  plain  lay  girt  by  mountains  vast, 
And  hills  o'er  hills  lifted  their  heads  of  green, 
With  pleasant  vales  scooped  out  and  villages  between. 

The  rain-drops  glistened  on  the  trees  around, 
Whose  shadows  on  the  tall  grass  were  not  stirred, 
Save  when  a  shower  of  diamonds,  to  the  ground, 
Was  shaken  by  the  flight  of  startled  bird ; 
For  birds  were  warbling  round,  and  bees  were  heard 
About  the  flowers ;  the  cheerful  rivulet  sung 
And  gossiped,  as  he  hastened  oceanward ; 
To  the  gray  oak  the  squirrel,  chiding,  clung, 
And  chirping  from  the  ground  the  grasshopper  upsprung. 

And  from  beneath  the  leaves  that  kept  them  dry 
Flew  many  a  glittering  insect  here  and  there, 
And  darted  up  and  down  the  butterfly, 
That  seemed  a  living  blossom  of  the  air, 
The  flocks  came  scattering  from  the  thicket,  where 
The  violent  rain  had  pent  them  ;  in  the  way 
Strolled  groups  of  damsels  frolicsome  and  fair; 
The  farmer  swung  the  scythe  or  turned  the  hay, 
And  'twixt  the  heavy  swaths  his  children  were  at  play. 

It  was  a  scene  of  peace — and,  like  a  spell, 
Did  that  serene  and  golden  sunlight  fall 


r 

76  POEMS. 

Upon  the  motionless  wood  that  clothed  the  fell, 
And  precipice  upspringing  like  a  wall, 
And  glassy  river  and  white  waterfall, 
And  happy  living  things  that  trod  the  bright 
And  beauteous  scene  ;  while  far  beyond  them  all, 
On  many  a  lovely  valley,  out  of  sight, 
Was  poured  from  the  blue  heavens  the  same  soft  golden  light. 

I  looked,  and  thought  the  quiet  of  the  scene 
An  emblem  of  the  peace  that  yet  shall  be, 
When  o'er  earth's  continents,  and  isles  between, 
The  noise  of  war  shall  cease  from  sea  to  sea, 
And  married  nations  dwell  in  harmony  j 
When  millions,  crouching  in  the  dust  to  one, 
No  more  shall  beg  their  lives  on  bended  knee, 
Nor  the  black  stake  be  dressed,  nor  in  the  sun 
The  o'erlabored  captive  toil,  and  wish  his  life  were  done. 

Too  long,  at  clash  of  arms  amid  her  bowers 
And  pools  of  blood,  the  earth  has  stood  aghast, 
The  fair  earth,  that  should  only  blush  with  flowers 
And  ruddy  fruits ;  but  not  for  aye  can  last 
The  storm,  and  sweet  the  sunshine  when  'tis  past. 
Lo,  the  clouds  roll  away — they  break — they  fly, 
And,  like  the  glorious  light  of  summer,  cast 
O'er  the  wide  landscape  from  the  embracing  sky, 
On  all  the  peaceful  world  the  smile  of  heaven  shall  lie. 


AUTUMN  WOODS. 

ERE,  in  the  northern  gale, 
The  summer  tresses  of  the  trees  are  gone, 
The  woods  of  Autumn,  all  around  our  vale, 

Have  put  their  glory  on. 


AUTUMN  WOODS. 

The  mountains  that  infold, 

In  their  wide  sweep,  the  colored  landscape  round, 
Seem  groups  of  giant  kings,  in  purple  and  gold, 

That  guard  the  enchanted  ground. 

I  roam  the  woods  that  crown 
The  upland,  where  the  mingled  splendors  glow, 
Where  the  gay  company  of  trees  look  down 

On  the  green  fields  below. 

My  steps  are  not  alone 

In  these  bright  walks  ;  the  sweet  southwest,  at  play 
Flies,  rustling,  where  the  painted  leaves  are  strown 

Along  the  winding  way. 

And  far  in  heaven,  the  while, 
The  sun,  that  sends  that  gale  to  wander  here, 
Pours  out  on  the  fair  earth  his  quiet  smile — 

The  sweetest  of  the  year. 

Where  now  the  solemn  shade, 
Verdure  and  gloom  where  many  branches  meet ; 
So  grateful,  when  the  noon  of  summer  made 

The  valleys  sick  with  heat  ? 

Let  in  through  all  the  trees 

Come  the  strange  rays ;  the  forest  depths  are  bright ; 
Their  sunny  colored  foliage,  in  the  breeze, 

Twinkles,  like  beams  of  light. 

The  rivulet,  late  unseen, 

Where  bickering  through  the  shrubs  its  waters  run, 
Shines  with  the  image  of  its  golden  screen, 

And  glimmerings  of  the  sun. 


77 


78  POEMS. 

But  'neath  yon  crimson  tree, 
Lover  to  listening  maid  might  breathe  his  flame, 
Nor  mark,  within  its  roseate  canopy, 

Her  blush  of  maiden  shame. 

Oh,  Autumn  !  why  so  soon 
Depart  the  hues  that  make  thy  forests  glad, 
Thy  gentle  wind  and  thy  fair  sunny  noon, 

And  leave  thee  wild  and  sad ! 

Ah  !  'twere  a  lot  too  blest 
Forever  in  thy  colored  shades  to  stray  ; 
Amid  the  kisses  of  the  soft  southwest 

To  rove  and  dream  for  aye  ; 

And  leave  the  vain  low  strife 

That  makes  men  mad — the  tug  for  wealth  and  power- 
The  passions  and  the  cares  that  wither  life, 

And  waste  its  little  hour. 


MUTATION. 

THEY  talk  of  short-lived  pleasure — be  it  so — 

Pain  dies  as  quickly :  stern,  hard-featured  pain 
Expires,  and  lets  her  weary  prisoner  got. 

The  fiercest  agonies  have  shortest  reign ; 

And  after  dreams  of  horror,  comes  again 
The  welcome  morning  with  its  rays  of  peace. 

Oblivion,  softly  wiping  out  the  stain, 
Makes  the  strong  secret  pangs  of  shame  to  cease  : 
Remorse  is  virtue's  root ;  its  fair  increase 

Are  fruits  of  innocence  and  blessedness  : 


SONG  OF  THE   GREEK  AMAZON.  79 

Thus  joy,  o'erborne  and  bound,  doth  still  release 

His  young  limbs  from  the  chains  that  round  him  press. 
Weep  not  that  the  world  changes — did  it  keep 
A  stable,  changeless  state,  'twere  cause  indeed  to  weep. 


NOVEMBER. 

YET  one  smile  more,  departing,  distant  sun  ! 

One  mellow  smile  through  the  soft  vapory  air, 
Ere,  o'er  the  frozen  earth,  the  loud  winds  run, 

Or  snows  are  sifted  o'er  the  meadows  bare. 
One  smile  on  the  brown  hills  and  naked  trees, 

And  the  dark  rocks  whose  summer  wreaths  are  cast, 
And  the  blue  gentian-flower,  that,  in  the  breeze, 

Nods  lonely,  of  her  beauteous  race  the  last. 
Yet  a  few  sunny  days,  in  which  the  bee 

Shall  murmur  by  the  hedge  that  skirts  the  way, 
The  cricket  chirp  upon  the  russet  lea, 

And  man  delight  to  linger  in  thy  ray. 
Yet  one  rich  smile,  and  we  will  try  to  bear 
The  piercing  winter  frost,  and  winds,  and  darkened  air. 


SONG   OF   THE  GREEK  AMAZON. 

I  BUCKLE  to  my  slender  side 

The  pistol  and  the  scimitar, 
And  in  my  maiden  flower  and  pride 

Am  come  to  share  the  tasks  of  war. 


8o  POEMS. 


And  yonder  stands  my  fiery  steed, 

That  paws  the  ground  and  neighs  to  go, 

My  charger  of  the  Arab  breed — 
I  took  him  from  the  routed  foe. 

My  mirror  is  the  mountain-spring, 

At  which  I  dress  my  ruffled  hair ; 
My  dimmed  and  dusty  arms  I  bring, 

And  wash  away  the  blood-stain  there. 
Why  should  I  guard  from  wind  and  sun 

This  cheek,  whose  virgin  rose  is  fled  ? 
It  was  for  one — oh,  only  one — 

I  kept  its  bloom,  and  he  is  dead. 

But  they  who  slew  him — unaware 

Of  coward  murderers  lurking  nigh — 
And  left  him  to  the  fowls  of  air, 

Are  yet  alive — and  they  must  die ! 
They  slew  him — and  my  virgin  years 

Are  vowed  to  Greece  and  vengeance  now, 
And  many  an  Othman  dame,  in  tears, 

Shall  rue  the  Grecian  maiden's  vow. 

I  touched  the  lute  in  better  days, 

I  led  in  dance  the  joyous  band ; 
Ah !  they  may  move  to  mirthful  lays 

Whose  hands  can  touch  a  lover's  hand. 
The  march  of  hosts  that  haste  to  meet 

Seems  gayer  than  the  dance  to  me ; 
The  lute's  sweet  tones  are  not  so  sweet 

As  the  fierce  shout  of  victory. 


TO  A    CLOUD.  8l 

TO   A   CLOUD. 

BEAUTIFUL  cloud  !  with  folds  so  soft  and  fair, 

Swimming  in  the  pure  quiet  air  ! 
Thy  fleeces  bathed  in  sunlight,  while  below 

Thy  shadow  o'er  the  vale  moves  slow ; 
Where,  midst  their  labor,  pause  the  reaper  train, 

As  cool  it  comes  along  the  grain. 
Beautiful  cloud  !  I  would  I  were  with  thee 

In  thy  calm  way  o'er  land  and  sea ; 
To  rest  on  thy  unrolling  skirts,  and  look 

On  Earth  as  on  an  open  book  ; 
On  streams  that  tie  her  realms  with  silver  bands, 

And  the  long  ways  that  seam  her  lands ; 
And  hear  her  humming  cities,  and  the  sound 

Of  the  great  ocean  breaking  round. 
Ay — I  would  sail,  upon  thy  air-borne  car, 

To  blooming  regions  distant  far, 
To  where  the  sun  of  Andalusia  shines 

On  his  own  olive-groves  and  vines, 
Or  the  soft  lights  of  Italy's  clear  sky 

In  smiles  upon  her  ruins  lie. 
But  I  would  woo  the  winds  to  let  us  rest 

O'er  Greece,  long  fettered  and  oppressed, 
Whose  sons  at  length  have  heard  the  call  that  comes 

From  the  old  battle-fields  and  tombs, 
And  risen,  and  drawn  the  sword,  and  on  the  foe 

Have  dealt  the  swift  and  desperate  blow, 
And  the  Othman  power  is  cloven,  and  the  stroke 

Has  touched  its  chains,  and  they  are  broke. 
Ay,  we  would  linger,  till  the  sunset  there 

Should  come,  to  purple  all  the  air, 
And  thou  reflect  upon  the  sacred  ground 

The  ruddy  radiance  streaming  round. 


82  POEMS. 

Bright  meteor  !  for  the  summer  noontide  made  ! 

Thy  peerless  beauty  yet  shall  fade. 
The  sun,  that  fills  with  light  each  glistening  fold, 

Shall  set,  and  leave  thee  dark  and  cold : 
The  blast  shall  rend  thy  skirts,  or  thou  mayst  frown 

In  the  dark  heaven  when  storms  come  down ; 
And  weep  in  rain,  till  man's  inquiring  eye 

Miss  thee,  forever,  from  the  sky. 


THE   MURDERED  TRAVELLER. 

WHEN  Spring,  to  woods  and  wastes  around, 

Brought  bloom  and  joy  again, 
The  murdered  traveller's  bones  were  found, 

Far  down  a  narrow  glen. 

The  fragrant  birch,  above  him,  hung 

Her  tassels  in  the  sky ; 
And  many  a  vernal  blossom  sprung, 

And  nodded  careless  by. 

The  red-bird  warbled,  as  he  wrought 

His  hanging  nest  o'erhead, 
And  fearless,  near  the  fatal  spot, 

Her  young  the  partridge  led. 

But  there  was  weeping  far  away, 

And  gentle  eyes,  for  him, 
With  watching  many  an  anxious  day, 

Were  sorrowful  and  dim. 

They  little  knew,  who  loved  him  so, 
The  fearful  death  he  met, 


The  sad  and  solemn  Night 
Hath  yet  her  multitude  of  cheerful  fires. 

HYMN  TO  THE  NORTH  STAR,  p.  8,3 


houting  o'er  the  desert 
Unarmed,  and  hard  beset  ;• — 


Nor  how,  when  round  the  fr 
The  nor  t 


But  long  the 


host  of  lif 


'••*»  p«  83 


HYMN  TO   THE  NORTH  STAR.  83 

When  shouting  o'er  the  desert  snow, 
Unarmed,  and  hard  beset; — 

Nor  how,  when  round  the  frosty  pole 

The  northern  dawn  was  red, 
The  mountain-wolf  and  wild-cat  stole 

To  banquet  on  the  dead ; — 

Nor  how,  when  strangers  found  his  bones, 

They  dressed  the  hasty  bier, 
And  marked  his  grave  with  nameless  stones, 

Unmoistened  by  a  tear. 

But  long  they  looked,  and  feared,  and  wept, 

Within  his  distant  home ; 
And  dreamed,  and  started  as  they  slept, 

For  joy  that  he  was  come. 

Long,  long  they  looked — but  never  spied 

His  welcome  step  again, 
Nor  knew  the  fearful  death  he  died 

Far  down  that  narrow  glen. 


HYMN  TO  THE  NORTH  STAR. 

THE  sad  and  solemn  night 
Hath  yet  her  multitude  of  cheerful  fires  ; 

The  glorious  host  of  light 
Walk  the  dark  hemisphere  till  she  retires ; 
All  through  her  silent  watches,  gliding  slow, 
Her  constellations  come,  and  climb  the  heavens,  and  go. 


86  POEMS. 

Oh,  leave  me,  still,  the  rapid  flight 
That  makes  the  changing  seasons  gay, 

The  grateful  speed  fhat  brings  the  night, 
The  swift  and  glad  return  of  day  ; 

The  months  that  touch,  with  added  grace, 
This  little  prattler  at  my  knee, 

In  whose  arch  eye  and  speaking  face 
New  meaning  every  hour  I  see ; 

The  years,  that  o'er  each  sister  land 
Shall  lift  the  country  of  my  birth, 

And  nurse  her  strength,  till  she  shall  stand 
The  pride  and  pattern  of  the  earth  : 

Till  younger  commonwealths,  for  aid, 
Shall  cling  about  her  ample  robe, 

And  from  her  frown  shall  shrink  afraid 
The  crowned  oppressors  of  the  globe. 

True — time  will  seam  and  blanch  my  brow- 
Well — I  shall  sit  with  aged  men, 

And.  my  good  glass  will  tell  me  how 
A  grizzly  beard  becomes  me  then. 

And  then,  should  no  dishonor  lie 
Upon  my  head,  when  I  am  gray, 

Love  yet  shall  watch  my  fading  eye, 
And  smooth  the  path  of  my  decay. 

Then  haste  thee,  Time — 'tis  kindness  all 
That  speeds  thy  winged  feet  so  fast : 

Thy  pleasures  stay  not  till  they  pall, 
And  all  thy  pains  are  quickly  past. 


SONG  OF  THE  STARS.  87 

Thou  fliest  and  bear'st  away  our  woes, 

And  as  thy  shadowy  train  depart, 
The  memory  of  sorrow  grows 

A  lighter  burden  on  the  heart. 


SONG   OF   THE   STARS. 

WHEN  the  radiant  morn  of  creation  broke, 

And  the  world  in  the  smile  of  God  awoke, 

And  the  empty  realms  of  darkness  and  death 

Were  moved  through  their  depths  by  his  mighty  breath, 

And  orbs  of  beauty  and  spheres  of  flame 

From  the  void  abyss  by  myriads  came — 

In  the  joy  of  youth  as  they  darted  away, 

Through  the  widening  wastes  of  space  to  play, 

Their  silver  voices  in  chorus  rang, 

And  this  was  the  song  the  bright  ones  sang : 

"  Away,  away,  through  the  wide,  wide  sky, 

The  fair  blue  fields  that  before  us  lie — 

Each  sun  with  the  worlds  that  round  him  roll, 

Each  planet,  poised  on  her  turning  pole ; 

With  her  isles  of  green,  and  her  clouds  of  wjiite, 

And  her  waters  that  lie  like  fluid  light. 

"  For  the  source  of  glory  uncovers  his  face, 
And  the  brightness  o'erflows  unbounded  space, 
And  we  drink  as  we  go  the  luminous  tides 
In  our  ruddy  air  and  our  blooming  sides  : 
Lo,  yonder  the  living  splendors  play ; 
Away,  on  our  joyous  path,  away  ! 


88  POEMS. 

"Look,  look,  through  our  glittering  ranks  afar, 

In  the  infinite  azure,  star  after  star, 

How  they  brighten  and  bloom  as  they  swiftly  pass ! 

How  the  verdure  runs  o'er  each  rolling  mass  ! 

And  the  path  of  the  gentle  winds  is  seen, 

Where  the  small  waves  dance,  and  the  young  woods  lean, 

"  And  see,  where  the  brighter  day-beams  pour, 
How  the  rainbows  hang  in  the  sunny  shower ; 
And  the  morn  and  eve,  with  their  pomp  of  hues, 
Shift  o'er  the  bright  planets  and  shed  their  dews  ; 
And  'twixt  them  both,  o'er  the  teeming  ground, 
With  her  shadowy  cone  the  night  goes  round ! 

"  Away,  away !  in  our  blossoming  bowers, 
In  the  soft  air  wrapping  these  spheres  of  ours, 
In  the  seas  and  fountains  that  shine  with  morn, 
See,  Love  is  brooding,  and  Life  is  born, 
And  breathing  myriads  are  breaking  from  night, 
To  rejoice,  like  us,  in  motion  and  light. 

"  Glide  on  in  your  beauty,  ye  youthful  spheres, 

To  weave  the  dance  that  measures  the  years  ; 

Glide  on,  in  the  glory  and  gladness  sent 

To  the  furthest  wall  of  the  firmament — 

The  boundless  visible  smile  of  Him 

To  the  vdl  of  whose  brow  your  lamps  are  dim." 


A   FOREST  HYMN. 

THE  groves  were  God's  first  temples.     Ere  man  learned 
To  hew  the  shaft,  and  lay  the  architrave, 
And  spread  the  roof  above  them — ere  he  framed 


The  groves  were  God's  first  temples. 

A  FOREST  HYMN,  p.  88. 


A   FOREST  HYMN.  91 

My  heart  is  awed  within  me  when  I  think 
Of  the  great  miracle  that  still  goes  on, 
In  silence,  round  me — the  perpetual  work 
Of  thy  creation,  finished,  yet  renewed 
Forever.     Written  on  thy  works  I  read 
The  lesson  of  thy  own  eternity. 
Lo  !  all  grow  old  and  die — but  see  again, 
How  on  the  faltering  footsteps  of  decay 
Youth  presses — ever  gay  and  beautiful  youth 
In  all  its  beautiful  forms.     These  lofty  trees 
Wave  not  less  proudly  that  their  ancestors 
Moulder  beneath  them.     Oh,  there  is  not  lost 
One  of  earth's  charms  :  upon  her  bosom  yet, 
After  the  flight  of  untold  centuries, 
The  freshness  of  her  far  beginning  lies 
And  yet  shall  lie.     Life  mocks  the  idle  hate 
Of  his  arch-enemy  Death — yea,  seats  himself 
Upon  the  tyrant's  throne — the  sepulchre, 
And  of  the  triumphs  of  his  ghastly  foe 
Makes  his  own  nourishment.     For  he  came  forth 
From  thine  own  bosom,  and  shall  have  no  end. 

There  have  been  holy  men  who  hid  themselves 
Deep  in  the  woody  wilderness,  and  gave 
Their  lives  to  thought  and  prayer,  till  they  outlived 
The  generation  born  with  them,  nor  seemed 
Less  aged  than  the  hoary  trees  and  rocks 
Around  them ; — and  there  have  been  holy  men 
Who  deemed  it  were  not  well  to  pass  life  thus. 
But  let  me  often  to  these  solitudes 
Retire,  and  in  thy  presence  reassure 
My  feeble  virtue.     Here  its  enemies, 
The  passions,  at  thy  plainer  footsteps  shrink 
And  tremble  and  are  still.     O  God!  when  thou 


9  2  POEMS. 

Dost  scare  the  world  with  tempests,  set  on  fire 
The  heavens  with  falling  thunderbolts,  or  fill, 
With  all  the  waters  of  the  firmament, 
The  swift  dark  whirlwind  that  uproots  the  woods 
And  drowns  the  villages ;  when,  at  thy  call, 
Uprises  the  great  deep  and  throws  himself 
Upon  the  continent,  and  overwhelms 
Its  cities — who  forgets  not,  at  the  sight 
Of  these  tremendous  tokens  of  thy  power, 
His  pride,  and  lays  his  strifes  and  follies  by  ? 
Oh,  from  these  sterner  aspects  of  thy  face 
Spare  me  and  mine,  nor  let  us  need  the  wrath 
Of  the  mad  unchained  elements  to  teach 
Who  rules  them.     Be  it  ours  to  meditate, 
In  these  calm  shades,  thy  milder  majesty, 
And  to  the  beautiful  order  of  thy  works 
Learn  to  conform  the  order  of  our  lives. 


"OH   FAIREST   OF   THE  RURAL   MAIDS." 

OH  fairest  of  the  rural  maids  ! 
Thy  birth  was  in  the  forest  shades^ 
Green  boughs,  and  glimpses  of  the  sky, 
Were  all  that  met  thine  infant  eye. 

Thy  sports,  thy  wanderings,  when  a  child, 
Were  ever  in  the  sylvan  wild ; 
And  all  the  beauty  of  the  place 
Is  in  thy  heart  and  on  thy  face. 

The  twilight  of  the  trees  and  rocks 
Is  in  the  light  shade  of  thy  locks  ; 
Thy  step  is  as  the  wind,  that  weaves 
Its  playful  way  among  the  leaves. 


Ch  fairest  of  the  rural  maids  ! 
Thy  birth  was  in  the  forest  shades. 

"On  FAIREST  OF  THE  RURAL  MAIDS,"  p.  92. 


A   SONG  OF  PITCAIRN'S  ISLAND. 

Or  songs  of  maids,  beneath  the  moon 

With  fairy  laughter  blent  ? 
And  what  if,  in  the  evening  light, 
Betrothed  lovers  walk  in  sight 

Of  my  low  monument  ? 
I  would  the  lovely  scene  around 
Might  know  no  sadder  sight  nor  sound. 

I  know  that  I  no  more  should  see 

The  season's  glorious  show, 
Nor  would  its  brightness  shine  for  me, 

Nor  its  wild  music  flow ; 
But  if,  around  my  place  of  sleep, 
The  friends  I  love  should  come  to  weep, 

They  might  not  haste  to  go. 
Soft  airs,  and  song,  and  light,  and  bloom 
Should  keep  them  lingering  by  my  tomb. 

These  to  their  softened  hearts  should  bear 
The  thought  of  what  has  been, 

And  speak  of  one  who  cannot  share 
The  gladness  of  the  scene ; 

Whose  part,  in  all  the  pomp  that  fills 

The  circuit  of  the  summer  hills, 
Is  that  his  grave  is  green ; 

And  deeply  would  their  hearts  rejoice 

To  hear  again  his  living  voice. 


A   SONG   OF  PIT/CAIRN'S   ISLAND. 

COME,  take  our  boy,  and  we  will  go 

Before  our  cabin-door ; 
The  winds  shall  bring  us,  as  they  blow, 

The  murmurs  of  the  shore ; 


95 


POEMS. 

And  we  will  kiss  his  young  blue  eyes, 
And  I  will  sing  him,  as  he  lies, 

Songs  that  were  made  of  yore : 
I'll  sing,  in  his  delighted  ear, 
The  island  lays  thou  lov'st  to  hear, 

And  thou,  while  stammering  I  repeat, 
Thy  country's  tongue  shalt  teach; 
'Tis  not  so  soft,  but  far  more  sweet 

Than  my  own  native  speech  : 
For  thou  no  other  tongue  didst  know, 
When,  scarcely  twenty  moons  ago, 

Upon  Tahete's  beach, 
Thou  cam'st  to  woo  me  to  be  thine, 
With  many  a  speaking  look  and  sign. 

I  knew  thy  meaning — thou  didst  praise 
My  eyes,  my  locks  of  jet; 

Ah !  well  for  me  they  won  thy  gaze, 
But  thine  were  fairer  yet ! 

I'm  glad  to  see  my  infant  wear 

Thy  soft  blue  eyes  and  sunny  hair, 
And  when  my  sight  is  met 

By  his  white  brow  and  blooming  cheek, 

I  feel  a  joy  I  cannot  speak. 

Come  talk  of  Europe's  maids  with  me, 

Whose  necks  and  cheeks,  they  tell, 
Outshine  the  beauty  of  the  sea, 

White  foam  and  crimson  shell, 
I'll  shape  like  theirs  my  simple  dress, 
And  bind  like  them  each  jetty  tress, 

A  sight  to  please  thee  well : 
And  for  my  dusky  brow  will  braid 
A  bonnet  like  an  English  maid. 


THE  FIRMAMENT. 

Come,  for  the  soft  low  sunlight  calls, 

We  lose  the  pleasant  hours ; 
*Tis  lovelier  than  these  cottage  walls, — 

That  seat  among  the  flowers. 
And  I  will  learn  of  thee  a  prayer, 
To  Him  who  gave  a  home  so  fair, 

A  lot  so  blest  as  ours — 
The  God  who  made,  for  thee  and  me, 
This  sweet  lone  isle  amid  the  sea. 


THE   FIRMAMENT. 

AY  !  gloriously  thou  standest  there, 
Beautiful,  boundless  firmament ! 

That,  swelling  wide  o'er  earth  and  air, 
And  round  the  horizon  bent, 

With  thy  bright  vault,  and  sapphire  wall, 

Dost  overhang  and  circle  all. 

Far,  far  below  thee,  tall  gray  trees 
Arise,  and  piles  built  up  of  old, 

And  hills,  whose  ancient  summits  freeze 
In  the  fierce  light  and  cold. 

The  eagle  soars  his  utmost  height, 

Yet  far  thou  stretchest  o'er  his  flight. 

Thou  hast  thy  frowns — with  thee  on  high 
The  storm  has  made  his  airy  seat, 

Beyond  that  soft  blue  curtain  lie 
His  stores  of  hail  and  sleet. 

Thence  the  consuming  lightnings  break, 

There  the  strong  hurricanes  awake. 

9 


POEMS. 

Yet  art  thou  prodigal  of  smiles — 

Smiles,  sweeter  than  thy  frowns  are  stern 

Earth  sends,  from  all  her  thousand  isles, 
A  shout  at  their  return. 

The  glory  that  comes  down  from  thee, 

Bathes,  in  deep  joy,  the  land  and  sea. 

The  sun,  the  gorgeous  sun  is  thine, 

The  pomp  that  brings  and  shuts  the  day, 

The  clouds  that  round  him  change  and  shine, 
The  airs  that  fan  his  way. 

Thence  look  the  thoughtful  stars,  and  there 

The  meek  moon  walks  the  silent  air. 

The  sunny  Italy  may  boast 

The  beauteous  tints  that  flush  her  skies, 
And  lovely,  round  the  Grecian  coast, 

May  thy  blue  pillars  rise. 
I  only  know  how  fair  they  stand 
Around  my  own  beloved  land. 

And  they  are  fair — a  charm  is  theirs, 

That  earth,  the  proud  green  earth,  has  not, 

With  all  the  forms,  and  hues,  and  airs, 
That  haunt  her  sweetest  spot. 

We  gaze  upon  thy  calm  pure  sphere, 

And  read  of  Heaven's  eternal  year. 

Oh,  when,  amid  the  throng  of  men, 
The  heart  grows  sick  of  hollow  mirth, 

How  willingly  we  turn  us  then 
Away  from  this  cold  earth, 

And  look  into  thy  azure  breast, 

For  seats  of  innocence  and  rest ! 


In  deep  lonely  glens  where  the  waters  complain. 

"  I   CANNOT  FORGET,"  ETC.,  p.   99. 


VID 


iver  be 


: 


rrc.; 


/  CANNOT  FORGET: 


99 


"I     CANNOT      FORGET    WITH     WHAT     FERVID 
DEVOTION." 

I  CANNOT  forget  with  what  fervid  devotion 
I  worshipped  the  visions  of  verse  and  of  fame ; 

Each  gaze  at  the  glories  of  earth,  sky,  and  ocean, 
To  my  kindled  emotions,  was  wind  over  flame. 

And  deep  were  my  musings  in  life's  early  blossom, 
Mid  the  twilight  of  mountain-groves  wandering  long; 

How  thrilled  my  young  veins,  and  how  throbbed  my  full  bosom, 
When  o'er  me  descended  the  spirit  of  song. 

Mong  the  deep-cloven  fells  that  for  ages  had  listened 
To  the  rush  of  the  pebble-paved  river  between, 

Where  the  kingfisher  screamed  and  gray  precipice  glistened, 
All  breathless  with  awe  have  I  gazed  on  the  scene ; 

Till  I  felt  the  dark  power  o'er  my  reveries  stealing, 
From  the  gloom  of  the  thickets  that  over  me  hung, 

And  the  thoughts  that  awoke,  in  that  rapture  of  feeling, 
Were  formed  into  verse  as  they  rose  to  my  tongue. 

Bright  visions  !  I  mixed  with  the  world,  and  ye  faded, 
No  longer  your  pure  rural  worshipper  now ; 

In  the  haunts  your  continual  presence  pervaded, 
Ye  shrink  from  the  signet  of  care  on  my  brow. 

In  the  old  mossy  groves  on  the  breast  of  the  mountain, 
In  deep  lonely  glens  where  the  waters  complain, 

By  the  shade  of  the  rock,  by  the  gush  of  the  fountain, 
I  seek  your  loved  footsteps,  but  seek  them  in  vain. 


r 

100  POEMS. 

Oh,  leave  not  forlorn  and  forever  forsaken, 
Your  pupil  and  victim  to  life  and  its  tears  ! 

But  sometimes  return,  and  in  mercy  awaken 
The  glories  ye  showed  to  his  earlier  years. 


TO  A   MOSQUITO. 

FAIR  insect !  that,  with  threadlike  legs  spread  out, 
And  blood-extracting  bill  and  filmy  wing, 

Does  murmur,  as  thou  slowly  sail'st  about, 
In  pitiless  ears  full  many  a  plaintive  thing, 

And  tell  how  little  our  large  veins  would  bleed, 

Would  we  but  yield  them  to  thy  bitter  need. 

Unwillingly,  I  own,  and,  what  is  worse, 
Full  angrily  men  hearken  to  thy  plaint ; 

Thou  gettest  many  a  brush,  and  many  a  curse, 
For  saying  thou  art  gaunt,  and  starved,  and  faint ; 

Even  the  old  beggar,  while  he  asks  for  food, 

Would  kill  thee,  hapless  stranger,  if- he  could. 

I  call  thee  stranger,  for  the  town,  I  ween, 
Has  not  the  honor  of  so  proud  a  birth, — 

Thou  com'st  from  Jersey  meadows,  fresh  and  green, 
The  offspring  of  the  gods,  though  born  on  earth  ; 

For  Titan  was  thy  sire,  and  fair  was  she, 

The  ocean-nymph  that  nursed  thy  infancy. 

Beneath  the  rushes  was  thy  cradle  swung, 
And  when  at  length  thy  gauzy  wings  grew  strong, 

Abroad  to  gentle  airs  their  folds  were  flung, 
Rose  in  the  sky  and  bore  thee  soft  along ; 


LINES  ON  REVISITING   THE   COUNTRY.      103 

A  lisping  voice  and  glancing  eyes  are  near, 
And  ever -restless  feet  of  one,  who,  now, 

Gathers  the  blossoms  of  her  fourth  bright  year ; 
There  plays  a  gladness  o'er  her  fair  young  brow 

As  breaks  the  varied  scene  upon  her  sight, 

Upheaved  and  spread  in  verdure  and  in  light. 

For  I  have  taught  her,  with  delighted  eye, 
To  gaze  upon  the  mountains, — to  behold, 

With  deep  affection,  the  pure  ample  sky 
And  clouds  along  its  blue  abysses  rolled, 

To  love  the  song  of  waters,  and  to  hear 

The  melody  of  winds  with  charmed  ear. 

Here,  have  I  'scaped  the  city's  stifling  heat, 

Its  horrid  sounds,  and  its  polluted  air, 
And,  where  the  season's  milder  fervors  beat, 

And  gales,  that  sweep  the  forest  borders,  bear 
The  song  of  bird  and  sound  of  running  stream, 
Am  come  awhile  to  wander  and  to  dream. 

Ay,  flame  thy  fiercest,  sun  !  thou  canst  not  wake, 
In  this  pure  air,  the  plague  that  walks  unseen. 

The  maize-leaf  and  the  maple-bough  but  take, 
From  thy  strong  heats,  a  deeper,  glossier  green. 

The  mountain  wind,  that  faints  not  in  thy  ray, 

Sweeps  the  blue  steams  of  pestilence  away. 

The  mountain  wind !  most  spiritual  thing  of  all 
The  wide  earth  knows ;  when,  in  the  sultry  time, 
He  stoops  him  from  his  vast  cerulean  hall, 
He  .seems  the  breath  of  a  celestial  clime ! 
As  if  from  heaven's  wide-open  gates  did  flow 
Health  and  refreshment  on  the  world  below. 


104  POEMS. 


THE    DEATH    OF    THE    FLOWERS. 

THE  melancholy  days  are  come,  the  saddest  of  the  year, 
Of  wailing  winds,  and  naked  woods,  and  meadows  brown  and  sera 
Heaped  in  the  hollows  of  the  grove,  the  autumn  leaves  lie  dead; 
They  rustle  to  the  eddying  gust,  and  to  the  rabbit's  tread ; 
The  robin  and  the  wren  are  flown,  and  from  the  shrubs  the  jay, 
And  from  the  wood-top  calls  the  crow  through  all  the  gloomy  day. 

Where  are  the  flowers,  the  fair  young  flowers,  that  lately  sprang 

and  stood 

In  brighter  light  and  softer  airs,  a  beauteous  sisterhood  ? 
Alas !  they  all  are  in  their  graves,  the  gentle  race  of  flowers 
Are  lying  in  their  lowly  beds,  with  the  fair  and  good  of  ours. 
The  rain  is  falling  where  they  lie,  but  the  cold  November  rain 
Calls  not  from  out  the  gloomy  earth  the  lovely  ones  again. 

The  wind-flower  and  the  violet,  they  perished  long  ago, 

And  the  brier-rose  and  the  orchis  died  amid  the  summer  glow ; 

But  on  the  hill  the  golden-rod,  and  the  aster  in  the  wood, 

And  the  yellow  sun-flower  by  the  brook  in  autumn  beauty  stood, 

Till  fell  the  frost  from  the  clear  cold  heaven,  as  falls  the  plague  on 

men, 
And  the  brightness  of  their  smile  was  gone,  from  upland,  glade, 

and  glen. 

And  now,  when  comes  the  calm  mild  day,  as  still  such  days  will 

come, 

To  call  the  squirrel  and  the  bee  from  out  their  winter  home ; 
When  the  sound  of  dropping  nuts  is  heard,  though  all  the  trees  are 

still, 
And  twinkle  in  the  smoky  light  the  waters  of  the  rill, 


ROMERO. 


105 


The  south  wind  searches  for  the  flowers  whose  fragrance  late  he 

bore, 
And  sighs  to  find  them  in  the  wood  and  by  the  stream  no  more. 

And  then  I  think  of  one  who  in  her  youthful  beauty  died, 

The  fair  meek  blossom  that  grew  up  and  faded  by  my.  side. 

In  the  cold  moist  earth  we  laid  her,  when  the  forests  cast  the  leaf, 

And  we  wept  that  one  so  lovely  should  have  a  life  so  brief: 

Yet  not  unmeet  it  was  that  one,  like  that  young  friend  of  ours, 

So  gentle  and  so  beautiful,  should  perish  with  the  flowers. 


ROMERO. 

WHEN  freedom,  from  the  land  of  Spain, 

By  Spain's  degenerate  sons  was  driven, 
Who  gave  their  willing  limbs  again 

To  wear  the  chain  so  lately  riven  ; 
Romero  broke  the  sword  he  wore — 

"  Go  faithful  brand,"  the  warrior  said, 
"Go,  undishonored,  never  more 

The  blood  of  man  shall  make  thee  red. 

I  grieve  for  that  already  shed ; 
And  I  am  sick  at  heart  to  know, 
That  faithful  friend  and  noble  foe 
Have  only  bled  to  make  more  strong 
The  yoke  that  Spain  has  worn  so  long. 
Wear  it  who  will,  in  abject  fear — 

I  wear  it  not  who  have  been  free  ; 
The  perjured  Ferdinand  shall  hear 

No  oath  of  loyalty  from  me." 


106  POEMS. 


Then,  hunted  by  the  hounds  of  power, 

Romero  chose  a  safe  retreat, 
Where  bleak  Nevada's  summits  tower 

Above  the  beauty  at  their  feet. 
There  once,  when  on  his  cabin  lay 
The  crimson  light  of  setting  day, 
When,  even  on  the  mountain's  breast, 
The  chainless  winds  were  all  at  rest, 
And  he  could  hear  the  river's  flow 
From  the  calm  paradise  below ; 
Warmed  with  his  former  fires  again 
He  framed  this  rude  but  solemn  strain  : 


"  Here  will  I  make  my  home — for  here  at  least  I  see, 
Upon  this  wild  Sierra's  side,  the  steps  of  Liberty ; 
Where  the  locust  chirps  unscared  beneath  the  unpruned  lime, 
And  the  merry  bee  doth  hide  from  man  the  spoil  of  the  mountain - 

thyme; 
Where  the  pure  winds  come  and  go,  and  the  wild- vine  strays  at 

will, 
An  outcast  from  the  haunts  of  men,  she  dwells  with  Nature  still. 


II. 

"  I  see  the  valleys,  Spain !  where  thy  mighty  rivers  run, 
And  the  hills  that  lift  thy  harvests  and  vineyards  to  the  sun, 
And  the  flocks  that  drink  thy  brooks  and  sprinkle  all  the  green, 
Where  lie  thy  plains,  with  sheep-walks  seamed,  and  olive-shades 

between : 

I  see  thy  fig-trees  bask,  with  the  fair  pomegranate  near, 
And  the  fragrance  of  thy  lemon-groves  can  almost  reach  me  here. 


A  MEDITATION  ON  COAL. 


107 


Fair — fair — but  fallen  Spain  !  'tis  with  a  swelling  heart, 
That  I  think  on  all  thou  mightst  have  been,  and  look  at  what  thou 

art; 

But  the  strife  is  over  now,  and  all  the  good  and  brave, 
That  would  have  raised  thee  up,  are  gone,  to  exile  or  the  grave. 
Thy  fleeces  are  for  monks,  thy  grapes  for  the  convent  feast, 
And  the  wealth  of  all  thy  harvest-fields  for  the  pampered  lord  and 

priest. 

IV. 

"  But  I  shall  see  the  day — it  will  come  before  I  die — 
I  shall  see  it  in  my  silver  hairs,  and  with  an  age-dimmed  eye ; 
When  the  spirit  of  the  land  to  liberty  shall  bound, 
As  yonder  fountain  leaps  away  from  the  darkness  of  the  ground  : 
And  to  my  mountain-cell,  the  voices  of  the  free 
Shall  rise  as  from  the  beaten  shore  the  thunders  of  the  sea." 


A  MEDITATION   ON  RHODE  ISLAND   COAL. 

"Decolor,  obscurus,  vilis,  non  ille  repexam 
Cesariera  regum,  non  Candida  virgin  is  ornat 
Colla,  nee  insigni  splendet  per  cingula  morsu 
Sed  nova  si  nigri  videas  miracula  saxi, 
Tune  superat  pulchros  cultus  et  quicquid  Eois 
Indus  litoribus  rubra  scrutatur  in  alga." 

CLAUDIAN. 

I  SAT  beside  the  glowing  grate,  fresh  heaped 
With  Newport  coal,  and  as  the  flame  grew  bright 

— The  many-colored  flame — and  played  and  leaped, 
I  thought  of  rainbows,  and  the  northern  light, 


108  POEMS. 

Moore's  Lalla  Rookh,  the  Treasury  Report, 
.     And  other  brilliant  matters  of  the  sort.         , 

And  last  I  thought  of  that  fair  isle  which  sent 

The  mineral  fuel ;  on  a  summer  day 
I  saw  it  once,  with  heat  and  travel  spent, 

And  scratched  by  dwarf-oaks  in  the  hollow  way. 
Now  dragged  through  sand,  now  jolted  over  stone — 
A  rugged  road  through  rugged  Tiverton. 

And  hotter  grew  the  air,  and  hollower  grew 
The  deep-worn  path,  and  horror-struck,  I  thought, 

Where  will  this  dreary  passage  lead  me  to  ? 
This  long  dull  road,  so  narrow,  deep,  and  hot  ? 

I  looked  to  see  it  dive  in  earth  outright ; 

I  looked— but  saw  a  far  more  welcome  sight. 

Like  a  soft  mist  upon  the  evening  shore, 

At  once  a  lovely  isle  before  me  lay, 
Smooth,  and  with  tender  verdure  covered  o'er, 

As  if  just  risen  from  its  calm  inland  bay ; 
Sloped  each  way  gently  to  the  grassy  edge, 
And  the  small  waves  that  dallied  with  the  sedge. 

The  barley  was  just  reaped ;  its  heavy  sheaves 
Lay  on  the  stubble-field ;  the  tall  maize  stood 

Dark  in  its  summer  growth,  and  shook  its  leaves, 
And  bright  the  sunlight  played  on  the  young  wood- 

For  fifty  years  ago,  the  old  men  say, 

The  Briton  hewed  their  ancient  groves  away. 

I  saw  where  fountains  freshened  the  green  land, 
And  where  the  pleasant  road,  from  door  to  door, 

With  rows  of  cherry-trees  on  either  hand, 
Went  wandering  all  that  fertile  region  o'er — 


A  MEDITATION  ON  COAL.  IO9 

Rogue's  Island  once — but  when  the  rogues  were  dead, 
Rhode  Island  was  the  name  it  took  instead. 

Beautiful  island  !  then  it  only  seemed. 

A  lovely  stranger ;  it  has  grown  a  friend. 
I  gazed  on  its  smooth  slopes,  but  never  dreamed 

How  soon  that  green  and  quiet  isle  would  send 
The  treasures  of  its  womb  across  the  sea, 
To  warm  a  poet's  room  and  boil  his  tea. 

Dark  anthracite !  that  reddenest  on  my  hearth, 
Thou  in  those  island  mines  didst  slumber  long  ; 

But  now  thou  art  come  forth  to  move  the  earth, 
And  put  to  shame  the  men  that  mean  thee  wrong  : 

Thou  shalt  be  coals  of  fire  to  those  that  hate  thee, 

And  warm  the  shins  of  all  that  underrate  thee. 

Yea,  they  did  wrong  thee  foully — they  who  mocked 
Thy  honest  face,  and  said  thou  wouldst  not  burn ; 

Of  hewing  thee  to  chimney-pieces  talked, 
And  grew  profane,  and  swore,  in  bitter  scorn, 

That  men  might  to  thy  inner  caves  retire, 

And  there,  unsinged,  abide  the  day  of  fire. 

Yet  is  thy  greatness  nigh.     I  pause  to  state, 

That  I  too  have  seen  greatness — even  I — 
Shook  hands  with  Adams,  stared  at  La  Fayette, 

When,  barehead,  in  the  hot  noon  of  July, 
He  would  not  let  the  umbrella  be  held  o'er  him, 
For  which  three  cheers  burst  from  the  mob  before  him. 

And  I  have  seen — not  many  months  ago — 

An  eastern  Governor  in  chapeau  bras 
And  military  coat,  a  glorious  show ! 

Ride  forth  to  visit  the  reviews,  and  ah ! 


110  POEMS. 

How  oft  he  smiled  and  bowed  to  Jonathan  ! 

How  many  hands  were  shook  and  votes  were  won  ! 

'Twas  a  great  Governor ;  thou  too  shalt  be 
Great  in  thy  turn,  and  wide  shall  spread  thy  fame 

And  swiftly;  furthest  Maine  shall  hear  of  thee, 
And  cold  New  Brunswick  gladden  at  thy  name, 

And,  faintly  through  its  sleets,  the  weeping  isle 

That  sends  the  Boston  folks  their  cod  shall  smile. 

For  thou  shalt  forge  vast  railways,  and  shalt  heat 
The  hissing  rivers  into  steam,  and  drive 

Huge  masses  from  thy  mines,  on  iron  feet, 
Walking  their  steady  way,  as  it  alive, 

Northward,  till  everlasting  ice  besets  thee, 

And  South  as  far  as  the  grim  Spaniard  lets  thee. 

Thou  shalt  make  mighty  engines  swim  the  sea, 
Like  its  own  monsters — boats  that  for  a  guinea 

Will  take  a  man  to  Havre — and  shalt  be 
The  moving  soul  of  many  a  spinning-jenny, 

And  ply  thy  shuttles,  till  a  bard  can  wear 

As  good  a  suit  of  broadcloth  as  the  mayor. 

Then  we  will  laugh  at  winter  when  we  hear 
The  grim  old  churl  about  our  dwellings  rave : 

Thou,  fronvthat  "ruler  of  the  inverted  year," 
Shalt  pluck  the  knotty  sceptre  Cowper  gave, 

And  pull  him  from  his  sledge,  and  drag  him  in, 

And  melt  the  icicles  from  off  his  chin. 


THE  NEW  MOON.  \  \  j 


THE  NEW   MOON. 

WHEN,  as  the  garish  day  is  done, 
Heaven  burns  with  the  descended  sun, 

'Tis  passing  sweet  to  mark, 
Amid  that  flush  of  crimson  light, 
The  new  moon's  modest  bow  grow  bright, 

As  earth  and  sky  grow  dark. 

Few  are  the  hearts  too  cold  to  feel 
A  thrill  of  gladness  o'er  them  steal, 

When  first  the  wandering  eye 
Sees  faintly,  in  the  evening  blaze, 
That  glimmering  curve  of  tender  rays 

Just  planted  in  the  sky. 

The  sight  of  that  young  crescent  brings 
Thoughts  of  all  fair  and  youthful  things — 

The  hopes  of  early  years  ; 
And  childhood's  purity  and  grace, 
And  joys  that  like  a  rainbow  chase 

The  passing  shower  of  tears. 

The  captive  yields  him  to  the  dream 
Of  freedom,  when  that  virgin  beam 

Comes  out  upon  the  air ; 
And  painfully  the  sick  man  tries 
To  fix  his  dim  and  burning  eyes 

On  the  sweet  promise  there. 

Most  welcome  to  the  lover's  sight 
Glitters  that  pure,  emerging  light ; 

For  prattling  poets  say, 
That  sweetest  is  the  lovers'  walk, 


1 1  2  POEMS, 

And  tenderest  is  their  murmured  talk, 
Beneath  its  gentle  ray. 

v     And  there  do  graver  men  behold 
A  type  of  errors,  loved  of  old, 

Forsaken  and  forgiven ; 
And  thoughts  and  wishes  not  of  earth 
Just  opening  in  their  early  birth, 

Like  that  new  light  in  heaven. 


OCTOBER. 

AY,  thou  art  welcome,  heaven's  delicious  breath ! 
When  woods  begin  to  wear  the  crimson  leaf, 
And  suns  grow  meek,  and  the  meek  suns  grow  brief, 

And  the  year  smiles  as  it  draws  near  its  death. 

Wind  of  the  sunny  south !  oh,  still  delay 
In  the  gay  woods  and  in  the  golden  air, 
Like  to  a  good  old  age  released  from  care, 

Journeying,  in  long  serenity,  away. 

In  such  a  bright,  late  quiet,  would  that  I 

Might  wear  out  life  like  thee,  mid  bowers  and  brooks, 
And,  dearer  yet,  the  sunshine  of  kind  looks, 

And  music  of  kind  voices  ever  nigh ; 

And  when  my  last  sand  twinkled  in  the  glass, 

Pass  silently  from  men,  as  thou  dost  pass. 


THE  DAMSEL  OF   PERU. 

WHERE  olive-leaves  were  twinkling  in  every  wind  that  blew, 
There  sat  beneath  the  pleasant  shade  a  damsel  of  Peru. 


THE  DAMSEL  OF  PERU.  113 

Betwixt  the  slender  boughs,  as  they  opened  to  the  air, 
Came  glimpses  of  her  ivory  neck  and  of  her  glossy  hair ; 
And  sweetly  rang  her  silver  voice,  within  that  shady  nook, 
As  from  the  shrubby  glen  is  heard  the  sound  of  hidden  brook. 

'Tis  a  song  of  love  and  valor,  in  the  noble  Spanish  tongue, 
That  once  upon  the  sunny  plains  of  old  Castile  was  sung ; 
When,  from  their  mountain-holds,  on  the  Moorish  rout  below, 
Had  rushed  the  Christians  like  a  flood,  and  swept  away  the  foe. 
Awhile  that  melody  is  still,  and  then  breaks  forth  anew 
A  wilder  rhyme,  a  livelier  note,  of  freedom  and  Peru. 

For  she  has  bound  the  sword  to  a  youthful  lover's  side, 
And  sent,  him  to  the  war  the  day  she  should  have  been  his  bride, 
And  bade  him  bear  a  faithful  heart  to  battle  for  the  right, 
And  held  the  fountains  of  her  eyes  till  he  was  out  of  sight. 
Since  the  parting  kiss  was  given,  six  weary  months  are  fled, 
And  yet  the  foe  is  in  the  land,  and  blood  must  yet  be  shed. 

A  white  hand  parts  the  branches,  a  lovely  face  looks  forth, 
And  bright  dark  eyes  gaze  steadfastly  and  sadly  toward  the  north. ' 
Thou  look'st  in  vain,  sweet  maiden,  the  sharpest  sight  would  fail 
To  spy  a  sign  of  human  life  abroad  in  all  the  vale ; 
For  the  noon  is  coming  on,  and  the  sunbeams  fiercely  beat, 
And  the  silent  hills  and  forest-tops  seem  reeling  in  the  heat. 

That  white  hand  is  withdrawn,  that  fair  sad  face  is  gone, 
But  the  music  of  that  silver  voice  is  flowing  sweetly  on, 
Not  as  of  late,  in  cheerful  tones,  but  mournfully  and  low, — 
A  ballad  of  a  tender  maid  heart-broken  long  ago, 
Of  him  who  died  in  battle,  the  youthful  and  the  brave, 
And  her  who  died  of  sorrow,  upon  his  early  grave. 

But  see,  along  that  mountain-slope,  a  fiery  horseman  ride  ; 
Mark  his  torn  plume,  his  tarnished  belt,  the  sabre  at  his  side. 


114 


POEMS, 


His  spurs  are  buried  rowel-deep,  he  rides  with  loosened  rain, 
There's  blood  upon  his  charger's  flank  and  foam  upon  the  mane  ; 
He  speeds  him  toward  the  olive-grove,  along  that  shaded  hill : 
God  shield  the  helpless  maiden  there,  if  he  should  mean  her  ill ! 

And  suddenly  that  song  has  ceased,  and  suddenly  I  hear 
A  shriek  sent  up  amid  the  shade,  a  shriek — but  not  of  fear. 
For  tender  accents  follow,  and  tenderer  pauses  speak 
The  overflow  of  gladness,  when  words  are  all  too  weak ; 
"Hay  my  good  sword  at  thy  feet,  for  now  Peru  is  free, 
And  I  am  come  to  dwell  beside  the  olive-grove  with  thee." 


THE  AFRICAN   CHIEF. 

CHAINED  in  the  market-place  he  stood, 

A  man  of  giant  frame, 
Amid  the  gathering  multitude 

That  shrunk  to  hear  his  name — 
All  stern  of  look  and  strong  of  limb, 

His  dark  eye  on  the  ground : — 
And  silently  they  gazed  on  him, 

As  on  a  lion  bound. 

Vainly,  but  well,  that  chief  had  fought, 

He  was  a  captive  now, 
Yet  pride,  that  fortune  humbles  not, 

Was  written  on  his  brow. 
The  scars  his  dark  broad  bosom  wore 

Showed  warrior  true  and  brave  ; 
A  prince  among  his  tribe  before, 

He  could  not  be  a  slave. 


THE  AFRICAN  CHIEF. 

Then  to  his  conqueror  he  spake  : 

"  My  brother  is  a  king ; 
Undo  this  necklace  from  my  neck, 

And  take  this  bracelet  ring, 
And  send  me  where  my  brother  reigns, 

And  I  will  fill  thy  hands 
With  store  of  ivory  from  the  plains, 

And  gold-dust  from  the  sands." 

"  Not  for  thy  ivory  nor  thy  gold 

Will  I  unbind  thy  chain  ; 
That  bloody  hand  shall  never  hold 

The  battle-spear  again. 
A  price  thy  nation  never  gave 

Shall  yet  be  paid  for  thee  ; 
For  thou  shalt  be  the  Christian's  slave, 

In  lands  beyond  the  sea." 

Then  wept  the  warrior  chief,  and  bade 

To  shred  his  locks  away ; 
And  one  by  one,  each  heavy  braid 

Before  the  victor  lay. 
Thick  were  the  platted  locks,  and  long, 

And  closely  hidden  there 
Shone  many  a  wedge  of  gold  among 

The  dark  and  crisped  hair. 

"  Look,  feast  thy  greedy  eye  with  gold 

Long  kept  for  sorest  need : 
Take  it — thou  askest  sums  untold — 

And  say  that  I  am  freed. 
Take  it — my  wife,  the  long,  long  day, 

Weeps  by  the  cocoa-tree, 
And  my  young  children  leave  their  play, 

And  ask  in  vain  for  me." 


116  POEMS. 

"  I  take  thy  gold,  but  I  have  made 

Thy  fetters  fast  and  strong, 
And  ween  that  by  the  cocoa-shade 

Thy  wife  will  wait  thee  long." 
Strong  was  the  agony  that  shook 

The  captive's  frame  to  hear, 
And  the  proud  meaning  of  his  look 

Was  changed  to  mortal  fear. 

His  heart  was  broken — crazed  his  brain 
At  once  his  eye  grew  wild  ; 

He  struggled  fiercely  with  his  chain, 
Whispered,  and  wept,  and  smiled ; 

Yet  wore  not  long  those  fatal  bands, 
And  once,  at  shut  of  day, 

They  drew  him  forth  upon  the  sands, 
The  foul  hyena's  prey. 


SPRING  IN  TOWN. 

THE  country  ever  has  a  lagging  Spring, 
Waiting  for  May  to  call  its  violets  forth, 

And  June  its  roses  ;  showers  and  sunshine  b/ing, 
Slowly,  the  deepening  verdure  o'er  the  earth ; 

To  put  their  foliage  out,  the  woods  are  slack, 

And  one  by  one  the  smging-birds  come  back. 

Within  the  city's  bounds  the  time  of  flowers 
Comes  earlier.     Let  a  mild  and  sunny  day, 

Such  as  full  often,  for  a  few  bright  hours, 
Breathes  through  the  sky  of  March  the  airs  of  May, 

Shine  on  our  roofs  and  chase  the  wintry  gloom — 

And  lo !  our  borders  glow  with  sudden  bloom. 


SPRING  IN  TOWN.  117 

For  the  wide  sidewalks  of  Broadway  are  then 
Gorgeous  as  are  a  rivulet's  banks  in  June, 

That  overhung  with  blossoms,  through  its  glen, 
Slides  soft  away  beneath  the  sunny  noon, 

And  they  who  search  the  untrodden  wood  for  flowers 

Meet  in  its  depths  no  lovelier  ones  than  ours. 

For  here  are  eyes  that  shame  the  violet, 

Or  the  dark  drop  that  on  the  pansy  lies, 
And  foreheads,  white,  as  when  in  clusters  set, 

The  anemones  by  forest-mountains  rise ; 
And  the  spring-beauty  boasts  no  tenderer  streak 
Than  the  soft  red  on  many  a  youthful  cheek. 

And  thick  about  those  lovely  temples  lie 

Locks  that  the  lucky  Vignardonne  has  curled, 

Thrice  happy  man !  whose  trade  it  is  to  buy, 

And  bake,  and  braid  those  love-knots  of  the  world ; 

Who  curls  of  every  glossy  color  keepest, 

And  sellest,  it  is  said,  the  blackest  cheapest. 

And  well  thou  mayst — for  Italy's  brown  maids 

Send  the  dark  locks  with  which  their  brows  are  dressed, 

And  Gascon  lasses,  from  their  jetty  braids, 
Crop  half,  to  buy  a  ribbon  for  the  rest ; 

But  the  fresh  Norman  girls  their  tresses  spare, 

And  the  Dutch  damsel  keeps  her  flaxen  hair. 

Then,  henceforth,  let  no  maid  nor  matron  grieve, 

To  see  her  locks  of  an  unlovely  hue, 
Frouzy  or  thin,  for  liberal  art  shall  give 

Such  piles  of  curls  as  Nature  never  knew. 
Eve,  with  her  veil  of  tresses,  at  the  sight 
Had  blushed,  outdone,  and  owned  herself  a  fright. 


18  POEMS. 

Soft  voices  and  light  laughter  wake  the  street, 
Like  notes  of  woodbirds,  and  where'er  the  eye 

Threads  the  long  way,  plumes  wave,  and  twinkling  feet 
Fall  light,  as  hastes  that  crowd  of  beauty  by. 

The  ostrich,  hurrying  o'er  the  desert  space, 

Scarce  bore  those  tossing  plumes  with  fleeter  pace. 

No  swimming  Juno  gait,  of  languor  born, 
Is  theirs,  but  a  light  step  of  freest  grace, — 

Light  as  Camilla's  o'er  the  unbent  corn, — 
A  step  that  speaks  the  spirit  of  the  place, 

Since  Quiet,  meek  old  dame,  was  driven  away 

To  Sing  Sing  and  the  shores  of  Tappan  Bay. 

Ye  that  dash  by  in  chariots  !  who  will  care 
For  steeds  or  footmen  now  ?  ye  cannot  show 

Fair  face,  and  dazzling  dress,  and  graceful  air, 
And  last  edition  of  the  shape  !  Ah,  no, 

These  sights  are  for  the  earth  and  open  sky, 

And  your  loud  wheels  unheeded  rattle  by. 


THE   GLADNESS   OF   NATURE. 

Is  this  a  time  to  be  cloudy  and  sad, 

When  our  mother  Nature  laughs  around ; 

When  even  the  deep  blue  heavens  look  glad, 

And  gladness  breathes  from  the  blossoming  ground  ? 

There  are  notes  of  joy  from  the  hang-bird  and  wren, 
And  the  gossip  of  swallows  through  all  the  sky ; 

The  ground-squirrel  gayly  chirps  by  his  den, 
And  the  wilding  bee  hums  merrily  by. 


THE  DISINTERRED    WARRIOR.  1 

The  clouds  are  at  play  in  the  azure  space, 

And  their  shadows  at  play  on  the  bright-green  vale, 

And  here  they  stretch  to  the  frolic  chase, 
And  there  they  roll  on  the  easy  gale. 

There's  a  dance  of  leaves  in  that  aspen  bower, 
There's  a  titter  of  winds  in  that  beechen  tree, 

There's  a  smile  on  the  fruit,  and  a  smile  on  the  flower, 
And  a  laugh  from  the  brook  that  runs  to  the  sea. 

And  look  at  the  broad-faced  sun,  how  he  smiles 
On  the  dewy  earth  that  smiles  in  his  ray, 

On  the  leaping  waters  and  gay  young  isles  ; 
Ay,  look,  and  he'll  smile  thy  gloom  away. 


THE   DISINTERRED   WARRIOR. 

GATHER  him  to  his  grave  again, 

And  solemnly  and  softly  lay, 
Beneath  the  verdure  of  the  plain, 

The  warrior's  scattered  bones  away. 
Pay  the  deep  reverence,  taught  of  old, 

The  homage  of  man's  heart  to  death  ; 
Nor  dare  to  trifle  with  the  mould 

Once  hallowed  by  the  Almighty's  breath. 

The  soul  hath  quickened  every  part — 
,     That  remnant  of  a  martial  brow, 
Those  ribs  that  held  the  mighty  heart, 
That  strong:  arm — strong  no  longer  now. 


1 20  POEMS. 

Spare  them,  each  mouldering  relic  spare, 
Of  God's  own  image  ;  let  them  rest, 

Till  not  a  trace  shall  speak  of  where 
The  awful  likeness  was  impressed. 

For  he  was  fresher  from  the  hand 

That  formed  of  earth  the  human  face, 
And  to  the  elements  did  stand 

In  nearer  kindred  than  our  race. 
In  many  a  flood  to  madness  tossed, 

In  many  a  storm  has  been  his  path  ; 
He  hid  him  not  from  heat  or  frost, 

But  met  them,  and  defied  their  wrath. 

Then  they  were  kind — the  forests  here, 

Rivers,  and  stiller  waters,  paid 
A  tribute  to  the  net  and  spear 

Of  the  red  ruler  of  the  shade. 
Fruits  on  the  woodland  branches  lay, 

Roots  in  the  shaded  soil  below  ; 
The  stars  looked  forth  to  teach  his  way ; 

The  still  earth  warned  him  of  the  foe. 

A  noble  race  !  but  they  are  gone, 

With  their  old  forests  wide  and  deep, 
And  we  have  built  our  homes  upon 

Fields  where  their  generations  sleep. 
Their  fountains  slake  our  thirst  at  noon, 

Upon  their  fields  our  harvest  waves, 
Our  lovers  woo  beneath  their  moon — 

Then  let  us  spare,  at  least,  their  graves. 


THE   GREEK  PARTISAN.  12i 


MIDSUMMER. 

A  POWER  is  on  the  earth  and  in  the  air 
From  which  the  vital  spirit  shrinks  afraid, 
And  shelters  him,  in  nooks  of  deepest  shade, 

From  the  hot  steam  and  from  the  fiery  glare. 

Look  forth  upon  the  earth — her  thousand  plants 
Are  smitten ;  even  the  dark  sun-loving  maize 
Faints  in  the  field  beneath  the  torrid  blaze  ; 

The  herd  beside  the  shaded  fountain  pants  ; 

For  life  is  driven  from  all  the  landscape  brown  ; 
The  bird  has  sought  his  tree,  the  snake  his  den, 
The  trout  floats  dead  in  the  hot  stream,  and  men 

Drop  by  the  sun-stroke  in  the  populous  town  : 
As  if  the  Day  of  Fire  had  dawned,  and  sent 
Its  deadly  breath  into  the  firmament. 


THE  GREEK  PARTISAN. 

OUR  free  flag  is  dancing 

In  the  free  mountain  air, 
And  burnished  arms  are  glancing, 

And  warriors  gathering  there ; 
And  fearless  is  the  little  train 

Whose  gallant  bosoms  shield  it ; 
The  blood  that  warms  their  hearts  shall  stain 

That  banner,  ere  they  yield  it. 
— Each  dark  eye  is  fixed  on  earth, 

And  brief  each  solemn  greeting ; 
There  is  no  look  nor  sound  of  mirth, 

Where  those  stern  men  are  meeting. 

11 


122  POEMS. 

They  go  to  the  slaughter 

To  strike  the  sudden  blow, 
And  pour  on  earth,  like  water, 

The  best  blood  of  the  foe  ; 
To  rush  on  them  from  rock  and  height, 

And  clear  the  narrow  valley, 
Or  fire  their  camp  at  dead  of  night, 

And  fly  before  they  rally. 
— Chains  are  round  our  country  pressed, 

And  cowards  have  betrayed  her, 
And  we  must  make  her  bleeding  breast 

The  grave  of  the  invader. 

Not  till  from  her  fetters 

We  raise  up  Greece  again, 
And  write,  in  bloody  letters, 

That  tyranny  is  slain, — 
Oh,  not  till  then  the  smile  shall  steal 

Across  those  darkened  faces, 
Nor  one  of  all  those  warriors  feel 

His  children's  dear  embraces. 
— Reap  we  not  the  ripened  wheat, 

Till  yonder  hosts  are  flying, 
And  all  their  bravest,  at  our  feet, 

Like  autumn  sheaves  are  lying. 


THE   TWO   GRAVES. 

'Tis  a  bleak  wild  hill,  but  green  and  bright 
In  the  summer  warmth  and  the  mid-day  light ; 
There's  the  hum  of  the  bee  and  the  chirp  of  the  wren 
And  the  dash  of  the  brook  from  the  alder-glen ; 


THE   TWO   GRAVES.  j  23 

There's  the  sound  of  a  bell  from  the  scattered  flock, 
And  the  shade  of  the  beech  lies  cool  on  the  rock, 
And  fresh  from  the  west  is  the  free  wind's  breath ; — 
There  is  nothing  here  that  speaks  of  death. 

Far  yonder,  where  orchards  and  gardens  lie, 
And  dwellings  cluster,  'tis  there  men  die, 
They  are  born,  they  die,  and  are  buried  near, 
Where  the  populous  graveyard  lightens  the  bier. 
For  strict  and  close  are  the  ties  that  bind 
In  death  the  children  of  human-kind ; 
Yea,  stricter  and  closer  than  those  of  life, — 
'Tis  a  neighborhood  that  knows  no  strife. 
They  are  noiselessly  gathered — friend  and  foe — 
To  the  still  and  dark  assemblies  below. 
Without  a  frown  or  a  smile  they  meet, 
Each  pale  and  calm  in  his  winding-sheet; 
In  that  sullen  home  of  peace  and  gloom, 
Crowded,  like  guests  in  a  banquet-room. 

Yet  there  are  graves  in  this  lonely  spot, 
Two  humble  graves, — but  I  meet  them  not. 
I  have  seen  them, — eighteen  years  are  past 
Since  I  found  their  place  in  the  brambles  last, — 
The  place  where,  fifty  winters  ago, 
An  aged  man  in  his  locks  of  snow, 
And  an  aged  matron,  withered  with  years, 
Were  solemnly  laid! — but  not  with  tears. 
For  none,  who  sat  by  the  light  of  their  hearth, 
Beheld  their  coffins  covered  with  earth ; 
Their  kindred  were  far,  and  their  children  dead, 
When  the  funeral-prayer  was  coldly  said. 

Two  low  green  hillocks,  two  small  gray  stones, 
Rose  over  the  place  that  held  their  bones ; 


124 


POEMS. 

But  the  grassy  hillocks  are  levelled  again, 
And  the  keenest  eye  might  search  in  vain, 
'Mong  briers,  and  ferns,  and  paths  of  sheep, 
For  the  spot  where  the  aged  couple  sleep. 

Yet  well  might  they  lay,  beneath  the  soil 
Of  this  lonely  spot,  that  man  of  toil, 
And  trench  the  strong  hard  mould  with  the  spade, 
Where  never  before  a  grave  was  made  ; 
For  he  hewed  the  dark  old  woods  away, 
And  gave  the  virgin  fields  to  the  day ; 
And  the  gourd  and  the  bean,  beside  his  door, 
Bloomed  where  their  flowers  ne'er  opened  before ; 
And  the  maize  stood  up,  and  the  bearded  rye 
Bent  low  in  the  breath  of  an  unknown  sky. 

'Tis  said  that  when  life  is  ended  here, 
The  spirit  is  borne  to  a  distant  sphere ; 
That  it  visits  its  earthly  home  no  more,    • 
'Nor  looks  on  the  haunts  it  loved  before. 
But  why  should  the  bodiless  soul  be  sent 
Far  off,  to  a  long,  long  banishment  ? 
Talk  not  of  the  light  and  the  living  green  ! 
It  will  pine  for  the  dear  familiar  scene ; 
It  will  yearn,  in  that  strange  bright  world,  to  behold 
The  rock  and  the  stream  it  knew  of  old. 

'Tis  a  cruel  creed,  believe  it  not ! 
Death  to  the  good  is  a  milder  lot. 
They  are  here, — they  are  here, — that  harmless  pair, 
In  the  yellow  sunshine  and  flowing  air, 
In  the  light  cloud-shadows  that  slowly  pass, 
In  the  sounds  that  rise  from  the  murmuring  grass. 
They  sit  where  their  humble  cottage  stood, 
They  walk  by  the  waving  edge  of  the  wood, 


CONJUNCTION  OF  JUPITER  AND    VENUS.   125 

And  list  to  the  long-accustomed  flow 

Of  the  brook  that  wets  the  rocks  below, 

Patient,  and  peaceful,  and  passionless, 

As  seasons  on  seasons  swiftly  press, 

They  watch,  and  wait,  and  linger  around, 

Till  the  day  when  their  bodies  shall  leave  the  ground. 


THE   CONJUNCTION   OF   JUPITER  AND   VENUS. 

I  WOULD  not  always  reason.     The  straight  path 
Wearies  us  with  its  never- varying  lines, 
And  we  grow  melancholy.     I  would  make 
Reason  my  guide,  but  she  should  sometimes  sit 
Patiently  by  the  way-side,  while  I  traced 
The  mazes  of  the  pleasant  wilderness 
Around  me.     She  should  be  my  counsellor, 
But  not  my  tyrant.     For  the  spirit  needs 
Impulses  from  a  deeper  source  than  hers, 
And  there  are  motions,  in  the  mind  of  man, 
That  she  must  look  upon  with  awe.     I  bow 
Reverently  to  her  dictates,  but  not  less 
Hold  to  the  fair  illusions  of  old  time — 
Illusions  that  shed  brightness  over  life, 
And  glory  over  Nature.     Look,  even  now, 
Where  two  bright  planets  in  the  twilight  meet, 
Upon  the  saffron  heaven, — the  imperial  star 
Of  Jove,  and  she  that  from  her  radiant  urn 
Pours  forth  the  light  of  love.     Let  me  believe, 
Awhile,  that  they  are  met  for  ends  of  good, 
Amid  the  evening  glory,  to  confer 
Of  men  and  their  affairs,  and  to  shed  down 


1 26  POEMS. 

Kind  influence.     Lo  !  they  brighten  as  we  gaze, 

And  shake  out  softer  fires  !     The  great  earth  feels 

The  gladness  and  the  quiet  of  the  time. 

Meekly  the  mighty  river,  that  infolds 

This  mighty  city,  smooths  his  front,  and  far 

Glitters  and  burns  even  to  the  rocky  base 

Of  the  dark  heights  that  bound  him  to  the  west ; 

And  a  deep  murmur,  from  the  many  streets, 

Rises  like  a  thanksgiving.     Put  we  hence 

Dark  and  sad  thoughts  awhile — there's  time  for  them 

Hereafter — on  the  morrow  we  will  meet, 

With  melancholy  looks,  to  tell  our  griefs, 

And  make  each  other  wretched ;  this  calm  hour, 

This  balmy,  blessed  evening,  we  will  give 

To  cheerful  hopes  and  dreams  of  happy  days, 

Born  of  the  meeting  of  those  glorious  stars. 

Enough  of  drought  has  parched  the  year,  and  scared 
The  land  with  dread  of  famine.     Autumn,  yet, 
Shall  make  men  glad  with  unexpected  fruits. 
The  dog-star  shall  shine  harmless  :  genial  days 
Shall  softly  glide  away  into  the  keen 
And  wholesome  cold  of  winter ;  he  that  fears 
The  pestilence,  shall  gaze  on  those  pure  beams, 
And  breathe,  with  confidence,  the  quiet  air. 

Emblems  of  power  and  beauty  !  wrell  may  they 
Shine  brightest  on  our  borders,  and  withdraw 
Toward  the  great  Pacific,  marking  out 
The  path  of  empire.     Thus  in  our  own  land, 
Ere  long,  the  better  Genius  of  our  race, 
Having  encompassed  earth,  and  tamed  its  tribes, 
Shall  sit  him  down  beneath  the  farthest  west, 
By  the  shore  of  that  calm  ocean,  and  look  back 
On  realms  made  happy. 


CONJUNCTION  OF  JUPITER  AND    VENUS.  127 

Light  the  nuptial  torch, 
And  say  the  glad,  yet  solemn  rite,  that  knits 
The  youth  and  maiden.     Happy  days  to  them 
That  wed  this  evening  ! — a  long  life  of  love, 
And  blooming  sons  and  daughters !     Happy  they 
Born  at  this  hour,  for  they  shall  see  an  age 
Whiter  and  holier  than  the  past,  and  go 
Late  to  their  graves.     Men  shall  wear  softer  hearts, 
And  shudder  at  the  butcheries  of  war, 
As  now  at  other  murders. 

Hapless  Greece ! 

Enough  of  blood  has  wet  thy  rocks,  and  stained 
Thy  rivers ;  deep  enough  thy  chains  have  worn 
Their  links  into  thy  flesh  ;  the  sacrifice 
Of  thy  pure  maidens,  and  thy  innocent  babes, 
And  reverend  priests,  has  expiated  all 
Thy  crimes  of  old.     In  yonder  mingling  lights 
There  is  an  omen  of  good  days  for  thee. 
Thou  shalt  arise  from  midst  the  dust  and  sit 
Again  among  the  nations.     Thine  own  arm 
Shall  yet  redeem  thee.     Not  in  wars  like  thine 
The  world  takes  part.     Be  it  a  strife  of  kings, — 
Despot  with  despot  battling  for  a  throne, — 
And  Europe  shall  be  stirred  throughout  her  realms, 
Nations  shall  put  on  harness,  and  shall  fall 
Upon  each  other,  and  in  all  their  bounds 
The  wailing  of  the  childless  shall  not  cease. 
Thine  is  a  war  for  liberty,  and  thou 
Must  fight  it  single-handed.     The  old  world 
Looks  coldly  on  the  murderers  of  thy  race, 
And  leaves  thee  to  the  struggle  ;  and  the  new, — 
I  fear  me  thou  couldst  tell  a  shameful  tale 
Of  fraud  and  lust  of  gain  ; — thy  treasury  drained, 


POEMS. 

And  Missolonghi  fallen.     Yet  thy  wrongs 
Shall  put  new  strength  into  thy  heart  and  hand, 
And  God  and  thy  good  sword  shall  yet  work  out, 
For  thee,  a  terrible  deliverance. 


A   SUMMER  RAMBLE. 

THE  quiet  August  noon  has  come ; 

A  slumberous  silence  nils  the  sky, 
The  fields  are  still,  the  woods  are  dumb, 

In  glassy  sleep  the  waters  lie. 

And  mark  yon  soft  white  clouds  that  rest 
Above  our  vale,  a  moveless  throng ; 

The  cattle  on  the  mountain's  breast    • 
Enjoy  the  grateful  shadow  long. 

Oh,  how  unlike  those  merry  hours, 
In  early  June,  when  Earth  laughs  out, 

When  the  fresh  winds  make  love  to  flowers, 
And  woodlands  sing  and  waters  shout. 

When  in  the  grass  sweet  voices  talk, 
And  strains  of  tiny  music  SAvell 

From  every  moss-cup  of  the  rock, 
From  every  nameless  blossom's  bell. 

But  now  a  joy  too  deep  for  sound, 
A  peace  no  other  season  knows, 

Hushes  the  heavens  and  wraps  the  ground, 
The  blessing  of  supreme  repose. 


A   SUMMER  RAMBLE.  129 

Away  !  I  will  not  be,  to-day, 

The  only  slave  of  toil  and  care, 
Away  from  desk  and  dust !  away  ! 

I'll  be  as  idle  as  the  air. 

Beneath  the  open  sky  abroad, 

Among  the  plants  and  breathing  things, 

The  sinless,  peaceful  works  of  God, 
I'll  share  the  calm  the  season  brings. 

Come,  thou,  in  whose  soft  eyes  I  see 

The  gentle  meanings  of  thy  heart, 
One  day  amid  the  woods  with  me, 

From  men  and  all  their  cares  apart. 

And  where,  upon  the  meadow's  breast, 

The  shadow  of  the  thicket  lies, 
The  blue  wild-flowers  thou  gatherest 

Shall  glow  yet  deeper  near  thine  eyes. 

Come,  and  when  mid  the  calm  profound, 

I  turn,  those  gentle  eyes  to  seek, 
They,  like  the  lovely  landscape  round, 

Of  innocence  and  peace  shall  speak. 

Rest  here,  beneath  the  unmoving  shade, 

And  on  the  silent  valleys  gaze, 
Winding  and  widening,  till  they  fade 

In  yon  soft  ring  of  summer  haze. 

The  village  trees  their  summits  rear 

Still  as  its  spire,  and  yonder  flock 
At  rest  in  those  calm  fields  appear 

As  chiselled  from  the  lifeless  rock. 


POEMS. 

One  tranquil  mount  the  scene  o'erlooks — 
There  the  hushed  winds  their  sabbath  keep, 

While  a  near  hum  from  bees  and  brooks 
Comes  faintly  like  the  breath  of  sleep. 

Well  may  the  gazer  deem  that  when, 
Worn  with  the  struggle  and  the  strife, 

And  heart-sick  at  the  wrongs  of  men, 
The  good  forsakes  the  scene  of  life ; 

Like  this  deep  quiet  that,  awhile, 
Lingers  the  lovely  landscape  o'er, 

Shall  be  the  peace  whose  holy  smile 
Welcomes  him  to  a  happier  shore. 


A   SCENE   ON   THE   BANKS   OF  THE  HUDSON. 

COOL  shades  and  dews  are  round  my  way, 

And  silence  of  the  early  day ; 

Mid  the  dark  rocks  that  watch  his  bed, 

Glitters  the  mighty  Hudson  spread, 

Unrippled,  save  by  drops  that  fall 

From  shrubs  that  fringe  his  mountain  wall ; 

And  o'er  the  clear  still  water  swells 

The  music  of  the  Sabbath  bells. 

All,  save  this  little  nook  of  land, 
Circled  with  trees,  on  which  I  stand ; 
All,  save  that  line  of  hills  which  lie 
Suspended  in  the  mimic  sky— 


THE  HURRICANE.  131 

Seems  a  blue  void,  above,  below, 
Through,  which  the  white  clouds  come  and  go ; 
And  from  the  green  world's  farthest  steep 
I  gaze  into  the  airy  deep. 

Loveliest  of  lovely  things  are  they, 
On  earth,  that  soonest  pass  away. 
The  rose  that  lives  its  little  hour 
Is  prized  beyond  the  sculptured  flower. 
Even  love,  long  tried  and  cherished  long, 
Becomes  more  tender  and  more  strong 
At  thought  of  that  insatiate  grave 
From  which  its  yearnings  cannot  save. 

River  1  in  this  still  hour  thou  hast 
Too  much  of  heaven  on  earth  to  last ; 
Nor  long  may  thy  still  waters  lie, 
An  image  of  the  glorious  sky. 
Thy  fate  and  mine  are  not  repose, 
And  ere  another  evening  close, 
Thou  to  thy  tides  shalt  turn  again, 
And  I  to  seek  the  crowd  of  men. 


THE  HURRICANE. 

LORD  of  the  winds  !  I  feel  thee  nigh, 
I  know  thy  breath  in  the  burning  sky  ! 
And  I  wait,  with  a  thrill  in  every  vein, 
For  the  coming  of  the  hurricane  ! 

And  lo  !  on  the  wing  of  the  heavy  gales, 
Through  the  boundless  arch  of  heaven  he  sails ; 
Silent  and  slow,  and  terribly  strong, 
The  mighty  shadow  is  borne  along, 


POEMS. 

Like  the  dark  eternity  to  come ; 
While  the  world  below,  dismayed  and  dumb, 
Through  the  calm  of  the  thick  hot  atmosphere, 
Looks  up  at  its  gloomy  folds  with  fear. 

They  darken  fast ;  and  the  golden  blaze 
Of  the  sun  is  quenched  in  the  lurid  haze, 
And  he  sends  through  the  shade  a  funeral  ray — 
A  glare  that  is  neither  night  nor  day, 
A  beam  that  touches,  with  hues  of  death, 
The  clouds  above  and  the  earth  beneath. 
To  its  covert  glides  the  silent  bird, 
While  the  hurricane's  distant  voice  is  heard 
Uplifted  among  the  mountains  round, 
And  the  forests  hear  and  answer  the  sound. 

He  is  come !  he  is  come !  do  ye  not  behold 
His  ample  robes  on  the  wind  unrolled  ? 
Giant  of  air !  we  bid  thee  hail ! — 
How  his  gray  skirts  toss  in  the  whirling  gale ; 
How  his  huge  and  writhing  arms  are  bent 
To  clasp  the  zone  of  the  firmament, 
And  fold  at  length,  in  their  dark  embrace,    ' 
From  mountain  to  mountain  the  visible  space. 

Darker — still  darker !  the  whirlwinds  bear 
The  dust  of  the  plains  to  the  middle  air  : 
And  bark  to  the  crashing,  long  and  loud, 
Of  the  chariot  of  God  in  the  thunder-cloud  ! 
You  may  trace  its  path  by  the  flashes  that  start 
From  the  rapid  wheels  where'er  they  dart, 
As  the  fire-bolts  leap  to  the  world  below, 
And  flood  the  skies  with  a  lurid  glow. 


WILLIAM  TELL. 

W7hat  roar  is  that? — 'tis  the  rain  that  breaks 
In  torrents  away  from  the  airy  lakes, 
Heavily  poured  on  the  shuddering  ground, 
And  shedding  a  nameless  horror  round. 
Ah  !  well-known  woods,  and  mountains,  and  skies, 
With  the  very  clouds ! — ye  are  lost  to  my  eyes. 
I  seek  ye  vainly,  and  see  in  your  place 
The  shadowy  tempest  that  sweeps  through  space, 
A  whirling  ocean  that  fills  the  wall 
Of  the  crystal  heaven,  and  buries  all. 
And  I,  cut  off  from  the  world,  remain 
Alone  with  the  terrible  hurricane. 


WILLIAM   TELL. 

CHAINS  may  subdue  the  feeble  spirit,  but  thee, 
TELL,  of  the  iron  heart !  they  could  not  tame  ! 
For  thou  wert  of  the  mountains ;  they  proclaim 

The  everlasting  creed  of  liberty — 

That  creed  is  written  on  the  untrampled  snow, 
Thundered  by  torrents  which  no  power  can  hold, 
Save  that  of  God,  when  He  sends  forth  His  cold, 

And  breathed  by  winds  that  through  the  free  heaven  blow. 

Thou,  while  thy  prison-walls  were  dark  around, 
Didst  meditate  the  lesson  Nature  taught, 
And  to  thy  brief  captivity  was  brought 

.A  vision  of  thy  Switzerland  unbound. 

The  bitter  cup  they  mingled,  strengthened  thee 
For  the  great  work  to  set  thy  country  free. 


POEMS. 


THE   HUNTER'S   SERENADE. 

THY  bower  is  finished,  fairest ! 

Fit  bower  for  hunter's  bride, 
Where  old  woods  overshadow 

The  green  savanna's  side. 
I've  wandered  long,  and  wandered  far, 

And  never  have  I  met, 
In  all  this  lovely  Western  land, 

A  spot  so  lovely  yet. 
But  I  shall  think  it  fairer 

When  thou  art  come  to  bless, 
With  thy  sweet  smile  and  silver  voice, 

Its  silent  loveliness.  . 

For  thee  the  wild-grape  glistens, 

On  sunny  knoll  and  tree, 
The  slim  papaya  ripens 

Its  yellow  fruit  for  thee. 
For  thee  the  duck,  on  glassy  stream, 

The  prairie-fowl  shall  die, 
My  rifle  for  thy  feast  shall  bring 

The  wild-swan  from  the  sky. 
The  forest's  leaping  panther, 

Fierce,  beautiful,  and  fleet, 
Shall  yield  his  spotted  hide  to  be 

A  carpet  for  thy  feet. 

I  know,  for  thou  hast  told  me, 
Thy  maiden  love  of  flowers  ; 

Ah,  those  that  deck  thy  gardens 
Are  pale  compared  with  ours. 

When  our  wide  woods  and  mighty  lawns 
Bloom  to  the  April  skies, 


THE  HUNTERS  SERENADE. 

The  earth  has  no  more  gorgeous  sight 

To  show  to  human  eyes. 
In  meadows  red  with  blossoms, 

All  summer  long,  the  bee 
Murmurs,  and  loads  his  yellow  thighs, 

For  thee,  my  love,  and  me. 

Or  wouldst  thou  gaze  at  tokens 

Of  ages  long  ago — 
Our  old  oaks  stream  with  mosses, 

And  sprout  with  mistletoe  ; 
And  mighty  vines,  like  serpents,  climb 

The  giant  sycamore ; 
And  trunks,  o'erthrown  for  centuries, 

Cumber  the  forest  floor  ; 
And  in  the  great  savanna, 

The  solitary  mound, 
Built  by  the  elder  world,  o'erlooks 

The  loneliness  around. 

Come,  thou  hast  not  forgotten 

Thy  pledge  and  promise  quite, 
With  many  blushes  murmured, 

Beneath  the  evening  light. 
Come,  the  young  violets  crowd  my  door, 

Thy  earliest  look  to  win, 
And  at  my  silent  window-sill 

The  jessamine  peeps  in. 
All  day  the  red-bird  warbles, 

Upon  the  mulberry  near, 
And  the  night-sparrow  trills  her  song, 

All  night,  with  none  to  hear. 


'35 


136  POEMS. 


THE   GREEK  BOY. 

GONE  are  the  glorious  Greeks  of  old, 

Glorious  in  mien  and  mind; 
Their  bones  are  mingled  with  the  mould ; 

Their  dust  is  on  the  wind ; 
The  forms  they  hewed  from  living  stone 
Survive  the  waste  of  years,  alone, 
And,  scattered  with  their  ashes,  show 
What  greatness  perished  long  ago. 

Yet  fresh  the  myrtles  there  ;  the  springs 

Gush  brightly  as  of  yore ; 
Flowers  blossom  from  the  dust  of  kings, 

As  many  an  age  before. 
There  Nature  moulds  as  nobly  now, 
As  e'er  of  old,  the  human  brow; 
And  copies  still  the  martial  form 
That  braved  Platsea's  battle-storm. 

Boy  !  thy  first  looks  were  taught  to  seek 

Their  heaven  in  Hellas'  skies  ; 
Her  airs  have  tinged  thy  dusky  cheek, 

Her  sunshine  lit  thine  eyes ; 
Thine  ears  have  drunk  the  woodland  strains 
Heard  by  old  poets,  and  thy  veins 
Swell  with  the  blood  of  demigods, 
That  slumber  in  thy  country's  sods. 

Now  is  thy  nation  free — though  late — 

Thy  elder  brethren  broke — 
Broke,  ere  thy  spirit  felt  its  weight, 

The  intolerable  yoke. 


THE  PAST. 

And  Greece,  decayed,  dethroned,  doth  see 
Her  youth  renewed  in  such  as  thee : 
A  shoot  of  that  old  vine  that  made 
The  nations  silent  in  its  shade. 


THE   PAST. 

THOU  unrelenting  Past ! 
Strong  are  the  barriers  round  thy  dark  domain, 

And  fetters,  sure  and  fast, 
Hold  all  that  enter  thy  unbreathing  reign. 

Far  in  thy  realm  withdrawn 
Old  empires  sit  in  sullenness  and  gloom, 

And  glorious  ages  gone 
Lie  deep  within  the  shadow  of  thy  womb. 

Childhood,  with  all  its  mirth, 
Youth,  Manhood,  Age  that  draws  us  to  the  ground, 

And  last,  Man's  Life  on  earth, 
Glide  to  thy  dim  dominions,  and  are  bound. 

Thou  hast  my  better  years  ; 
Thou  hast  my  earlier  friends,  the  good,  the  kind, 

Yielded  to  thee  with  tears — 
The  venerable  form,  the  exalted  mind. 

My  spirit  yearns  to  bring 
The  lost  ones  back — yearns  with  desire  intense, 

And  struggles  hard  to  wring 
Thy  bolts  apart,  and  pluck  thy  captives  thence. 


POEMS. 

In  vain ;  thy  gates  deny 
All  passage  save  to  those  who  hence  depart ; 

Nor  to  the  streaming  eye 
Thou  giv'st  them  back — nor  to  the  broken  heart. 

In  thy  abysses  hide 
Beauty  and  excellence  unknown  ;  to  thee 

Earth's  wonder  and  her  pride 
Are  gathered,  as  the  waters  to  the  sea ; 

Labors  of  good  to  man, 
Unpublished  charity,  unbroken  faith, 

Love,  that  midst  grief  began, 
And  grew  with  years,  and  faltered  not  in  death. 

Full  many  a  mighty  name 
Lurks  in  thy  depths,  unuttered,  unrevered ; 

With  thee  are  silent  fame, 
Forgotten  arts,  and  wisdom  disappeared. 

Thine  for  a  space  are  they — 
Yet  shalt  thou  yield  thy  treasures  up  at  last : 

Thy  gates  shall  yet  give  way, 
Thy  bolts  shall  fall,  inexorable  Past ! 

All  that  of  good  and  fair 
lias  gone  into  thy  womb  from  earliest  time, 

Shall  then  come  forth  to  wear 
The  glory  and  the  beauty  of  its  prime. 

They  have  not  perished — no  ! 
Kind  words,  remembered  voices  once  so  sweet, 

Smiles,  radiant  long  ago, 
And  features,  the  great  soul's  apparent  seat. 


Upon  the  mountain's  distant  head, 
With  trackless  snows  forever  white. 

"UPON  THE  MOUNTAIN'S  DISTANT  HEAD,"  p.  139. 


shall  v  each  tie 

;-i  be  knit  again; 


t?  shall  Evil  die, 
borrow  dwell  a  prisoner 


a 

mv  lattice,  thoi 


p.  139. 


UPON  THE  MOUNTAIN'S  DISTANT  HEAD: 

All  shall  come  back ;  each  tie  . 
Of  pure  affection  shall  be  knit  again ; 

Alone  shall  Evil  die, 
And  Sorrow  dwell  a  prisoner  in  thy  reign. 

And  then  shall  I  behold 
Him,  by  whose  kind  paternal  side  I  sprung, 

And  her,  who,  still  and  cold, 
Fills  the  next  grave — the  beautiful  and  young. 


"UPON   THE  MOUNTAIN'S   DISTANT   HEAD.J,' 

UPON  the  mountain's  distant  head, 
With  trackless  snows  forever  white, 

Where  all  is  still,  and  cold,  and  dead, 
Late  shines  the  day's  departing  light. 

But  far  below  those  icy  rocks, 
The  vales,  in  summer  bloom  arrayed, 

Woods  full  of  birds,  and  fields  of  flocks, 
Are  dim  with  mist  and  dark  with  shade. 

'Tis  thus,  from  warm  and  kindly  hearts, 
And  eyes  where  generous  meanings  burn, 

Earliest  the  light  of  life  departs, 
But  lingers  with  the  cold  and  stern. 


THE  EVENING  WIND. 

SPIRIT  that  breathest  through  my  lattice,  thou 
That  cool'st  the  twilight  of  the  sultry  day, 

Gratefully  flows  thy  freshness  round  my  brow ; 
Thou  hast  been  out  upon  the  deep  at  play, 


139 


140 


POEMS. 

Riding  all  day  the  wild  blue  waves  till  now, 

Roughening  their  crests,  and  scattering  high  their  spray, 
And  swelling  the  white  sail.     I  welcome  thee 
To  the  scorched  land,  thou  wanderer  of  the  sea  ! 

Nor  I  alone ;  a  thousand  bosoms  round 

Inhale  thee  in  the  fulness  of  delight ; 
And  languid  forms  rise  up,  and  pulses  bound 

Livelier,  at  coming  of  the  wind  of  night ; 
And,  languishing  to  hear  thy  grateful  sound, 

Lies  the  vast  inland  stretched  beyond  the  sight. 
Go  forth  into  the  gathering  shade ;  go  forth, 
God's  blessing  breathed  upon  the  fainting  earth  ! 

Go,  rock  the  little  wood-bird  in  his  nest, 

Curl  the  still  waters,  bright  with  stars,  and  rouse 

The  wide  old  wood  from  his  majestic  rest, 
Summoning  from  the  innumerable  boughs 

The  strange,  deep  harmonies  that  haunt  his  breast : 
Pleasant  shall  be  thy  way  where  meekly  bows 

The  shutting  flower,  and  darkling  waters  pass, 

And  where  the  o'ershadowing  branches  sweep  the  grass. 

The  faint  old  man  shall  lean  his  silver  head 
To  feel  thee ;  thou  shalt  kiss  the  child  asleep, 

And  dry  the  moistened  curls  that  overspread 

His  temples,  while  his  breathing  grows  more  deep : 

And  they  who  stand  about  the  sick  man's  bed, 
Shall  joy  to  listen  to  thy  distant  sweep, 

And  softly  part  his  curtains  to  allow 

Thy  visit,  grateful  to  his  burning  brow. 

Go — but  the  circle  of  eternal  change, 
Which  is  the  life  of  Nature,  shall  restore, 


TO   THE  RIVER  ARVE.  143 

Thy  springs  are  in  the  cloud,  thy  stream 

Begins  to  move  and  murmur  first 
Where  ice-peaks  feel  the  noonday  beam, 

Or  rain-storms  on  the  glacier  burst. 

Born  where  the  thunder  and  the  blast 

And  morning's  earliest  light  are  born, 
Thou  rushest  swoln,  and  loud,  and  fast, 

By  these  low  homes,  as  if  in  scorn : 
Yet  humbler  springs  yield  purer  waves  ; 

And  brighter,  glassier  streams  than  thine, 
Sent  up  from  earth's  unlighted  caves, 

With  heaven's  own  beam  and  image  shine. 

Yet  stay ;  for  here  are  flowers  and  trees  ; 

Warm  rays  on  cottage-roofs  are  here, 
And  laugh  of  girls,  and  hum  of  bees — 

Here  linger  till  thy  waves  are  clear. 
Thou  heedest  not — thou  hastest  on ; 

From  steep  to  steep  thy  torrent  falls ; 
Till,  mingling  with  the  mighty  Rhone, 

It  rests  beneath  Geneva's  walls. 

Rush  on — but  were  there  one  with  me 

That  loved  me,  I  would  light  my  hearth 
Here,  where  with  God's  own  majesty 

Are  touched  the  features  of  the  earth. 
By  these  old  peaks,  white,  high,  and  vast, 

Still  rising  as  the  tempests  beat,  . 
Here  would  I  dwell,  and  sleep,  at  last, 

Among  the  blossoms  at  their  feet. 


144  POEMS. 


TO   COLE,    THE   PAINTER,    DEPARTING   FOR 
EUROPE. 

THINE  eyes  shall  see  the  light  of  distant  skies; 

Yet,  COLE  !  thy  heart  shall  bear  to  Europe's  strand 
A  living  image  of  our  own  bright  land, 

Such  as  upon  thy  glorious  canvas  lies ; 

Lone  lakes — savannas  where  the  bison  roves — 

Rocks  rich  with  summer  garlands — solemn  streams — 
Skies,  where  the  desert  eagle  wheels  and  screams — 

Spring  bloom  and  autumn  blaze  of  boundless  groves, 

I^air  scenes  shall  greet  thee  where  thou  goest — fair, 
But  different — everywhere  the  trace  of  men, 
Paths,  homes,  graves,  ruins,  from  the  lowest  glen 

To  where  life  shrinks  from  the  fierce  Alpine  air, 

Gaze  on  them,  till  the  tears  shall  dim  thy  sight, 
But  keep  that  earlier,  wilder  image  bright. 


TO   THE   FRINGED   GENTIAN. 

THOU  blossom  bright  with  autumn  dew, 
And  colored  with  the  heaven's  own  blue, 
That  openest  when  the  quiet  light 
Succeeds  the  keen  and  frosty  night. 

Thou  comest  not  when  violets  lean 
O'er  wandering  brooks  and  springs  unseen. 
Or  columbines,  in  purple  dressed, 
Nod  o'er  *he  ground-bird's  hidden  nest. 


THE    TWENTY-SECOND   OF  DECEMBER. 

Thou  waitest  late  and  com'st  alone, 
When  woods  are  bare  and  birds  are  flown, 
And  frosts  and  shortening  days  portend 
The  aged  year  is  near  his  end. 

Then  doth  thy  sweet  and  quiet  eye 
Look  through  its  fringes  to  the  sky, 
Blue — blue — as  if  that  sky  let  fall 
A  flower  from  its  cerulean  wall. 

I  would  that  thus,  when  I  shall  see 
The  hour  of  death  draw  near  to  me, 
Hope,  blossoming  within  my  heart, 
May  look  to  heaven  as  I  depart. 


THE   TWENTY-SECOND   OF   DECEMBER. 

WILD  was  the  day  ;  the  wintry  sea 

Moaned  sadly  on  New-England's  strand, 

When  first  the  thoughtful  and  the  free, 
Our  fathers,  trod  the  desert  land. 

They  -little  thought  how  pure  a  light, 

With  years,  should  gather  round  that  day  ; 

How  love  should  keep  their  memories  bright, 
How  wide  a  realm  their  sons  should  sway. 

Green  are  their  bays  ;  but  greener  still 
Shall  round  their  spreading  fame  be  wreathe;!, 

And  regions,  now  untrod,  shall  thrill 

With  reverence  when  their  names  are  breathed. 


146  POEMS. 

Till  where  the  sun,  with  softer  fires, 
Looks  on  the  vast  Pacific's  sleep, 

The  children  of  the  pilgrim  sires 

This  hallowed  day  like  us  shall  keep. 


HYMN   OF   THE   CITY. 

NOT  in  the  solitude 
Alone  may  man  commune  with  Heaven,  or  see, 

Only  in  savage  wood 
And  sunny  vale,  the  present  Deity ; 

Or  only  hear  his  voice 
Where  the  winds  whisper  and  the  waves  rejoice. 

Even  here  do  I  behold 
Thy  steps,  Almighty  ! — here,  amidst  the  crowd 

Through  the  great  city  rolled, 
With  everlasting  murmur  deep  and  loud — 

Choking  the  ways  that  wind 
'Mongst  the  proud  piles,  the  work  of  human  land. 

Thy  golden  sunshine  comes 
From  the  round  heaven,  and  on  their  dwellings  lies 

And  lights  their  inner  homes  ; 
For  them  thou  fill'st  with  air  the  unbounded  «kies, 

And  givest  them  the  stores 
Of  ocean,  and  the  harvests  of  its  shores. 

Thy  Spirit  is  around, 
Quickening  the  restless  mass  that  sweeps  along; 

And  this  eternal  sound — 
Voices  and  footfalls  of  the  numberless  throng— 

Like  the  resounding  sea, 
Or  like  the  rainy  tempest,  speaks  of  thee. 


THE  PRAIRIES. 

And  when  the  hour  of  rest 
Comes,  like  a  calm  upon  the  mid-sea  brine, 

Hushing  its  billowy  breast — 
The  quiet  of  that  moment  too  is  thine  ; 

It  breathes  of  Him  who  keeps 
The  vast  and  helpless  city  while  it  sleeps. 


THE   PRAIRIES. 

THESE  are  the  gardens  of  the  Desert,  these 
The  unshorn  fields,  boundless  and  beautiful, 
For  which  the  speech  of  England  has  no  name — 
The  Prairies.     I  behold  them  for  the  first, 
And  my  heart  swells,  while  the  dilated  sight 
Takes  in  the  encircling  vastness.     Lo !  they  stretch 
In  airy  undulations,  far  away, 
As  if  the  ocean,  in  his  gentlest  swell, 
Stood  still,  with  all  his  rounded  billows  fixed, 
And  motionless  forever. — Motionless  ? — 
No — they  are  all  unchained  again.     The  clouds 
Sweep  over  with  their  shadows,  and,  beneath, 
The  surface  rolls  and  fluctuates  to  the  eye ; 
Dark  hollows  seem  to  glide  along  and  chase 
The  sunny  ridges.     Breezes  of  the  South  ! 
Who  toss  the  golden  and  the  flame-like  flowers, 
And  pass  the  prairie-hawk  that,  poised  on  high, 
Flaps  his  broad  wings,  yet  moves  not — ye  have  played 
Among  the  palms  of  Mexico  and  vines 
Of  Texas,  and  have  crisped  the  limpid  brooks 
That  from  the  fountains  of  Sonora  glide 
Into  the  calm  Pacific — have  ye  fanned 


148  POEMS. 

A  nobler  or  a  lovelier  scene  than  this  ? 

Man  hath  no  part  in  all  "this  glorious  work : 

The  hand  that  built  the  firmament  hath  heaved 

And  smoothed  these  verdant  swells,  and  sown  their  slopes 

With  herbage,  planted  them  with  island  groves, 

And  hedged  them  round  with  forests.     Fitting  floor 

For  this  magnificent  temple  of  the  sky — 

With  flowers  whose  glory  and  whose  multitude 

Rival  the  constellations  !     The  great  heavens 

Seem  to  stoop  down  upon  the  scene  in  love, — 

A  nearer  vault,  and  of  a  tenderer  blue, 

Than  that  which  bends  above  our  eastern  hills. 

As  o'er  the  verdant  waste  I  guide  my  steed, 
Among  the  high  rank  grass  that  sweeps  his  sides 
The  hollow  beating  of  his  footstep  seems 
A  sacrilegious  sound.     I  think  of  those 
Upon  whose  rest  he  tramples.     Are  they  here — 
The  dead  of  other  days  ? — and  did  the  dust 
Of  these  fair  solitudes  once  stir  with  life 
And  burn  with  passion  ?     Let  the  mighty  mounds 
That  overlook  the  rivers,  or  that  rise 
In  the  dim  forest  crowded  with  old  oaks, 
Answer.     A  race,  that  long  has  passed  away, 
Built  them; — a  disciplined  and  populous  race 
Heaped,  with  long  toil,  the  earth,  while  yet  the  Greek 
Was  hewing  the  Pentelicus  to  forms 
Of  symmetry,  and  rearing  on  its  rock 
The  glittering  Parthenon.     These  ample  fields 
Nourished  their  harvests,  here  their  herds  were  fed, 
When  haply  by  their  stalls  the  bison  lowed, 
And  bowed  his  maned  shoulder  to  the  yoke. 
All  day  this  desert  murmured  with  their  toils, 
Till  twilight  blushed,  and  lovers  walked,  and  wooed 


THE  PRAIRIES. 

In  a  forgotten  language,  and  old  tunes, 

From  instruments  of  unremembered  form, 

Gave  the  soft  winds  a  voice.     The  red  man  came — 

The  roaming  hunter  tribes,  warlike  and  fierce, 

And  the  mound-builders  vanished  from  the  earth. 

The  solitude  of  centuries  untold 

Has  settled  where  they  dwelt.     The  prairie-wolf 

Hunts  in  their  meadows,  and  his  fresh-dug  den 

Yawns  by  my  path.     The  gopher  mines  the  ground 

Where  stood  their  swarming  cities.     All  is  gone  ; 

All — save  the  piles  of  earth  that  hold  their  bones, 

The  platforms  where  they  worshipped  unknown  gods, 

The  barriers  which  they  builded  from  the  soil 

To  keep  the  foe  at  bay — till  o'er  the  walls 

The  wild  beleaguerers  broke,  and,  one  by  one, 

The  strongholds  of  the  plain  were  forced,  and  heaped 

With  corpses.     The  brown  vultures  of  the  wood 

Flocked  to  those  vast  uncovered  sepulchres, 

And  sat  unscared  and  silent,  at  their  feast. 

Haply  some  solitary  fugitive, 

Lurking  in  marsh  and  forest,  till  the  sense 

Of  desolation  and  of  fear  became 

Bitterer  than  death,  yielded  himself  to  die. 

Man's  better  nature  triumphed  then.     Kind  words 

Welcomed  and  soothed  him  ;  the  rude  conquerors 

Seated  the  captive  with  their  chiefs  ;  he  chose 

A  bride  among  their  maidens,  and  at  length 

Seemed  to  forget, — yet  ne'er  forgot, — the  wife 

Of  his  first  love,  and  her  sweet  little  ones, 

Butchered,  amid  their  shrieks,  with  all  his  race. 

Thus  change  the  forms  of  being.     Thus  arise 
Races  of  living  things,  glorious  in  strength, 
And  perish,  as  the  quickening  breath  of  God 


POEMS. 

Fills  them,  or  is  withdrawn.     The  red  man,  too, 
Has  left  the  blooming  wilds  he  ranged  so  long, 
And,  nearer  to  the  Rocky  Mountains,  sought 
A  wilder  hunting-ground.     The  beaver  builds 
No  longer  by  these  streams,  but  far  away, 
On  waters  whose  blue  surface  ne'er  gave  back 
The  white  man's  face — among  Missouri's  springs, 
And  pools  whose  issues  swell  the  Oregon — 
He  rears  his  little  Venice.     In  these  plains 
The  bison  feeds  no  more.     Twice  twenty  leagues 
Beyond  remotest  smoke  of  hunter's  camp, 
Roams  the  majestic  brute,  in  herds  that  shake 
The  earth  with  thundering  steps — yet  here  I  meet 
His  ancient  footprints  stamped  beside  the  pool. 

Still  this  great  solitude  is  quick  with  life. 
Myriads  of  insects,  gaudy  as  the  flowers 
They  flutter  over,  gentle  quadrupeds, 
And  birds,  that  scarce  have  learned  the  fear  of  man, 
Are  here,  and  sliding  reptiles  of  the  ground, 
Startlingly  beautiful.     The  graceful  deer 
Bounds  to  the  wood  at  my  approach.     The  bee, . 
A  more  adventurous  colonist  than  man, 
With  whom  he  came  across  the  eastern  deep, 
Fills  the  savannas  with  his  murmurings, 
And  hides  his  sweets,  as  in  the  golden  age, 
Within  the  hollow  oak.     I  listen  long 
To  his  domestic  hum,  and  think  I  hear 
The  sound  of  that  advancing  multitude 
WThich  soon  shall  fill  these  deserts.     From  the  ground 
Comes  up  the  laugh  of  children,  the  soft  voice 
Of  maidens,  and  the  sweet  and  solemn  hymn 
Of  Sabbath  worshippers.     The  low  of  herds 
Blends  with  the  rustling  of  the  heavy  grain 


SONG   OF  MARION'S  MEN.  151 

Over  the  dark  brown  furrows.     All  at  once 

A  fresher  wind  sweeps  by,  and  breaks  my  dream, 

And  I  am  in  the  wilderness  alone. 


SONG    OF    MARION'S    MEN. 

OUR  band  is  few  but  true  and  tried, 

Our  leader  frank  and  bold ; 
The  British  soldier  trembles 

When  Marion's  name  is  told. 
Our  fortress  is  the  good  greenwood, 

Our  tent  the  cypress-tree ; 
We  know  the  forest  round  us, 

As  seamen  know  the  sea. 
We  know  its  walls  of  thorny  vines, 

Its  glades  of  reedy  grass, 
Its  safe  and  silent  islands 

Within  the  dark  morass. 

Woe  to  the  English  soldiery 

That  little  dread  us  near  ! 
On  them  shall  light  at  midnight 

A  strange  and  sudden  fear  : 
When,  waking  to  their  tents  on  fire, 

They  grasp  their  arms  in  vain, 
And  they  who  stand  to  face  us 

Are  beat  to  earth  again ; 
And  they  who  fly  in  terror  deem 

A  mighty  host  behind, 
And  hear  the  tramp  of  thousands 

Upon  the  hollow  wind. 


152 


POEMS. 

Then  sweet  the  hour  that  brings  release 

From  danger  and  from  toil : 
We  talk  the  battle  over, 

And  share  the  battle's  spoil.  , 

The  woodland  rings  with  laugh  and  shout, 

As  if  a  hunt  were  up, 
And  woodland  flowers  are  gathered 

To  crown  the  soldier's  cup. 
With  merry  songs  we  mock  the  wind 

That  in  the  pine-top  grieves, 
And  slumber  long  and  sweetly 

On  beds  of  oaken  leaves. 

Well  knows  the  fair  and  friendly  moon 

The  band  that  Marion  leads — 
The  glitter  of  their  rifles, 

The  scampering  of  their  steeds. 
'Tis  life  to  guide  the  fiery  barb 

Across  the  moonlight  plain  ; 
'Tis  life  to  feel  the  night-wind 

That  lifts  his  tossing  mane. 
A  moment  in  the  British  Camp — 

A  moment — and  away 
Back  to  the  pathless  forest, 

Before  the  peep  of  day. 

Grave  men  there  are  by  broad  Santee, 

Grave  men  with  hoary  hairs  ; 
Their  hearts  are  all  with  Marion, 

For  Marion  are  their  prayers. 
And  lovely  ladies  greet  our  band 

With  kindliest  welcoming,. 
With  smiles  like  those  of  summer, 

And  tears  like  those  of  spring. 


THE  ARCTIC  LOVER.  157 

For  them  we  wear  these  trusty  arms, 

And  lay  them  down  no  more 
Till  we  have  driven  the  Briton, 

Forever,  from  our  shore. 


THE   ARCTIC    LOVER. 

GONE  is  the  long,  long  winter  night ; 

Look,  my  beloved  one  ! 
How  glorious,  through  his  depths  of  light, 

Rolls  the  majestic  sun ! 
The  willows,  waked  from  winter's  death, 
Give  out  a  fragrance  like  thy  breath — 

The  summer  is  begun ! 

Ay,  'tis  the  long  bright  summer  day  : 

Hark,  to  that  mighty  crash ! 
The  loosened  ice-ridge  breaks  away — 

The  smitten  waters  flash. 
Seaward  the  glittering  mountain  rides, 
While,  down  its  green  translucent  sides, 

The  foamy  torrents  dash. 

See,  love,  my  boat  is  moored  for  thee, 

By  ocean's  weedy  floor — 
The  petrel  does  not  skim  the  sea 

More  swiftly  than  my  oar. 
We'll  go,  where,  on  the  rocky  isles, 
Her  eggs  the  screaming  sea-fowl  piles 

Beside  the  pebbly  shore. 


154  POEMS. 

Or,  bide  thou  where  the  poppy  blows, 
With  wind-flowers  frail  and  fair, 

While  I,  upon  his  isle  of  snows, 
Seek  and  defy  the  bear. 

Fierce  though  he  be,  and  huge  of  frame, 

This  arm  his  savage  strength  shall  tame, 
And  drag  him  from  his  lair. 

When  crimson  sky  and  flamy  cloud 
Bespeak  the  summer  o'er, 

And  the  dead  valleys  wear  a  shroud 
Of  snows  that  melt  no  more, 

I'll  build  of  ice  thy  winter  home, 

With  glistening  walls  and  glassy  dome, 
And  spread  with  skins  the  floor. 

The  white  fox  by  thy  couch  shall  play  ; 

And,  from  the  frozen  skies, 
The  meteors  of  a  mimic  day 

Shall  flash  upon  thine  eyes. 
And  I — for  such  thy  vow — meanwhile 
Shall  hear  thy  voice  and  see  thy  smile, 

Till  that  long  midnight  flies. 


THE  JOURNEY   OF  LIFE. 

BENEATH  the  waning  moon  I  walk  at  night, 
And  muse  on  human  life — for  all  around 

Are  dim  uncertain  shapes  that  cheat  the  sight, 
And  pitfalls  lurk  in  shade  along  the  ground, 

And  broken  gleams  of  brightness,  here  and  there, 

Glance  through,  ard  leave  un warmed  the  death-like  air. 


THE  JOURNEY  OF  LIFE. 

The  trampled  earth  returns  a  sound  of  fear — 
A  hollow  sound,  as  if  I  walked  on  tombs  ; 

And  lights,  that  tell  of  cheerful  homes,  appear 
Far  off,  and  die  like  hope  amid  the  glooms. 

A  mournful  wind  across  the  landscape  flies, 

And  the  wide  atmosphere  is  full  of  sighs. 

And  I,  with  faltering  footsteps,  journey  on, 
Watching  the  stars  that  roll  the  hours  away, 

Till  the  faint  light  that  guides  me  now  is  gone, 
And,  like  another  life,  the  glorious  day 

Shall  open  o'er  me  from  the  empyreal  height, 

With  warmth,  and  certainty,  and  boundless  light. 


TRANSLATIONS. 


VERSION   OF   A   FRAGMENT   OF    SIMONIDES. 

THE  night  winds  howled— the  billows  dashed 

Against  the  tossing  chest ; 
As  Danae  to  her  broken  heart 

Her  slumbering  infant  pressed. 

"  My  little  child  "—in  tears  she  said— 

"  To  wake  and  weep  is  mine, 
But  thou  canst  sleep — thou  dost  not  know 

Thy  mother's  lot,  and  thine. 

"  The  moon  is  up,  the  moonbeams  smile — 

They  tremble  on  the  main  ; 
But  dark,  within  my  floating  cell, 

To  me  they  smile  in  vain. 

"  Thy  folded  mantle  wraps  thee  warm, 

Thy  clustering  locks  are  dry, 
Thou  dost  not  hear  the  shrieking  gust, 

Nor  breakers  booming  high. 


FROM  THE  SPANISH  OF  VILLEGAS.         157 

"As  o'er  thy  sweet  unconscious  face 

A  mournful  watch  I  keep, 
I  thjnk,  didst  thou  but  know  thy  fate, 

How  thou  wouldst  also  weep. 

"  Yet,  dear  one,  sleep,  and  sleep,  ye  winds, 

That  vex  the  restless  brine — 
When  shall  these  eyes,  my  babe,  be  sealed 

As  peacefully  as  thine  !  " 


FROM   THE   SPANISH    OF   VILLEGAS. 

'Tis  sweet,  in  the  green  Spring, 
To  gaze  upon  the  wakening  fields  around ; 

Birds  in  the  thicket  sing, 
Winds  whisper,  waters  prattle  from  the  ground. 

A  thousand  odors  rise, 
Breathed  up  from  blossoms  of  a  thousand  dyes. 

Shadowy,  and  close,  and  cool, 
The  pine  and  poplar  keep  their  quiet  nook  ; 

Forever  fresh  and  full, 
Shines,  at  their  feet,  the  thirst-inviting  brook  ; 

And  the  soft  herbage  seems 
Spread  for  a  place  of  banquets  and  of  dreams. 

Thou,  who  alone  art  fair, 
And  whom  alone  I  love,  art  far  away. 

Unless  thy  smile  be  there, 
It  makes  me  sad  to  see  the  earth  so  gay ; 

I  care  not  if  the  train 
Of  leaves,  and  flowers,  and  zephyrs  go  again. 


i58 


TRANSLA  TIONS. 


MARY   MAGDALEN. 

FROM   THE  SPANISH   OF  BARTOLOME   LEONARDO   DE  ARGENSOLA. 

BLESSED,  yet  sinful  one,  and  broken-hearted  ! 
The  crowd  are  pointing  at  the  thing  forlorn, 

In  wonder  and  in  scorn ! 
Thou  weepest  days  of  innocence  departed  ; 
Thou  weepest,  and  thy  tears  have  power  to  move 
The  Lord  to  pity  and  love. 

The  greatest  of  thy  follies  is  forgiven, 

Even  for  the  least  of  all  the  tears  that  shine 

On  that  pale  cheek  of  thine. 

Thou  didst  kneel  down,  to  Him  who  came  from  heaven, 
Evil  and  ignorant,  and  thou  shalt  rise 
Holy,  and  pure,  and  wise. 

It  is  not  much  that  to  the  fragrant  blossom 

The  ragged  brier  should  change ;  the  bitter  fir, 

Distil  Arabian  myrrh ; 
Nor  that,  upon  the  wintry  desert's  bosom, 

The  harvest  should  rise  plenteous,  and  the  swain 
Bear  home  the  abundant  grain. 

But  come  and  see  the  bleak  and  barren  mountains 
Thick  to  their  tops  with  roses:  come  and  see 

Leaves  on  the  dry  dead  tree. 
The  perished  plant,  set  out  by  living  fountains, 
Grows  fruitful,  and  its  beauteous  branches  rise, 
Forever,  toward  the  skies. 


THE  LIFE  OF  THE  BLESSED. 
THE   LIFE   OF   THE  BLESSED. 

FROM  THE  SPANISH   OF  LUIS   PONCE  DE  LEON. 

REGION  of  life  and  light ! 

Land  of  the  good  whose  earthly  toils  are  o'er  ! 
Nor  frost  nor  heat  may  blight 
Thy  vernal  beauty,  fertile  shore, 

Yielding  thy  blessed  fruits  for  evermore. 

There,  without  crook  or  sling, 
Walks  the  good  shepherd;  blossoms  white  and  red 

Round  his  meek  temples  cling ; 

And  to  sweet  pastures  led, 
The  flock  he  loves  beneath  his  eye  is  fed. 

He  guides,  and  near  him  they 
Follow  delighted,  for  he  makes  them  go 

Where  dwells  eternal  May, 

And  heavenly  roses  blow, 
Deathless,  and  gathered  but  again  to  grow. 

He  leads  them  to  the  height 
Named  of  the  infinite  and  long-sought  Good, 

And  fountains  of  delight ; 

And  where  his  feet  have  stood 
Springs  up,  along  the  way,  their  tender  food. 

And  when,  in  the  mid  skies, 
The  climbing  sun  has  reached  his  highest  bcund, 

Reposing  as  he  lies, 

With  all  his  flock  around, 
He  witches  the  still  air  with  numerous  sound. 


!  60  TRANSLA  TIONS. 

From  his  sweet  lute  flow  forth 
Immortal  harmonies,  of  power  to  still 

All  passions  born  of  earth, 

And  draw  the  ardent  will 
Its  destiny  of  goodness  to  fulfil. 

Might  but  a  little  part, 
A  wandering  breath  of  that  high  melody, 

Descend  into  my  heart, 

And  change  it  till  it  be 
Transformed  and  swallowed  up,  oh  love,  in  thee ! 

Ah !  then  my  soul  should  know, 
Beloved !  where  thou  liest  at  noon  of  day, 
And  from  this  place  of  woe 
Released,  should  take  its  way 
To  mingle  with  thy  flock  and  never  stray. 


FATIMA  AND   RADUAN. 


FROM   THE   SPANISH. 


Diamante  falso  y  fingido, 
Engastado  en  pedernal,  etc. 

"  FALSE  diamond  set  in  flint  !  hard  heart  in  haughty  breast ! 
By  a  softer,  warmer  bosom  the  tiger's  couch  is  prest. 
Thou  art  fickle  as  the  sea,  thou  art  wandering  as  the  wind, 
And  the  restless  ever-mounting  flame  is  not  more  hard  to  bind. 
If  the  tears  I  shed  were  tongues,  yet  all  too  few  would  be 
To  tell  of  all  the  treachery  that  thou  hast  shown  to  me. 


Thou  hast  called  me  oft  the  flower  of  all  Granada's  maids. 

FATIMA  AND  RADUAN,  p.  160. 


Make  in  the  elms  a  lulling  sound, 
While  my  lady  sleeps  in  the  shade  below. 

THE  SIESTA,  p.  163. 


. 
he  child  can  r 


Lightf. 


THE  SIESTA. 

"  Immortal,  yet  shut  out  from  joy 
And  sunshine,  all  his  future  years. 

The  child  can  never  take,  you  see, 
A  single  step  without  a  staff— 

The  hardest  punishment  would  be 
Too  lenient  for  the  crime  by  half." 

All  said  that  Love  had  suffered  wrong, 

And  well  that  wrong  should  be  repaid  ; 
Then  weighed  the  public  interest  long, 

And  long  the  party's  interest  weighed. 
And  thus  decreed  the  court  above : 

"  Since  Love  is  blind  from  Folly's  blow, 
Let  Folly  be  the  guide  of  Love, 

Where'er  the  boy  may  choose  to  go." 


THE   SIESTA. 

FROM    THE    SPANISH. 

Vientecico  murmurador, 

Que  lo  gozas  y  andas  todo,  etc. 

AIRS,  that  wander  and  murmur  round, 

Bearing  delight  where'er  ye  blow ! 
Make  in  the  elms  a  lulling  sound, 

While  my  lady  sleeps  in  the  shade  below. 

Lighten  and  lengthen  her  noonday  rest, 
Till  the  heat  of  the  noonday  sun  is  o'er. 

Sweet  be  her  slumbers  !  though  in  my  breast 
The  pain  she  has  waked  may  slumber  no  more. 


1 64  TRANSLA  TJONS. 

Breathing  soft  from  the  blue  profound, 
Bearing  delight  where'er  ye  blow, 

Make  in  the  elms  a  lulling  sound, 
While  my  lady  sleeps  in  the  shade  below. 

Airs  !  that  over  the  bending  boughs, 

And  under  the  shade  of  pendent  leaves, 
Murmur  soft,  like  my  timid  vows 

Or  the  secret  sighs  my  bosom  heaves — 
Gently  sweeping  the  grassy  ground, 

Bearing  delight  where'er  ye  blow, 
Make  in  the  elms  a  lulling  sound, 

While  my  lady  sleeps  in  the  shade  below. 


THE'  ALCAYDE   OF   MOLINA. 

FROM  THE   SPANISH. 

To  the  town  of  Atienza,  Molina's  brave  Alcayde, 

The  courteous  and  the  valorous,  led  forth  his  bold  brigade. 

The  Moor  came  back  in  triumph,  he  came  without  a  wound, 

With  many  a  Christian  standard,  and  Christian  captive  bound. 

He  passed  the  city  portals,  with  swelling  heart  and  vain, 

And  toward  his  lady's  dwelling  he  rode  with  slackened  rein ; 

Two  circuits  on  his  charger  he  took,  and  at  the  third, 

From  the  door  of  her  balcony  Zelinda's  voice  was  heard. 

"  Now  if  thou  wert  not  shameless,"  said  the  lady  to  the  Moor, 

"  Thou  wouldst  neither  pass  my  dwelling,  nor  stop  before  my  door. 

Alas  for  poor  Zelinda,  and  for  her  wayward  mood, 

That  one  in  love  with  peace  should  have  loved  a  man  of  blood  ! 

Since  not  that  thou  wert  noble  I  chose  thee  for  my  knight, 

But  that  thy  sword  was  dreaded  in  tournay  and  in  fight. 


THE  DEATH  OF  ALIA  TAR. 

The  knights  of  the  Grand  Master 

In  crowded  ambush  lay ; 
They  rushed  upon  him  where  the  reeds 

Were  thick  beside  the  way ; 
They  smote  the  valiant  Aliatar, 

They  smote  the  warrior  dead, 
And  broken,  but  not  beaten,  were 

The  gallant  ranks  he  led. 
Now  mournfully  and  slowly 

The  afflicted  warriors  come, 
To  the  deep  wail  of  the  trumpet, 

And  beat  of  muffled  drum. 

Oh  !  what  was  Zayda's  sorrow, 

How  passionate  her  cries  ! 
Her  lover's  wounds  streamed  not  more  free 

Than  that  poor  maiden's  eyes. 
Say,  Love — for  didst  thou  see  her  tears — 

Oh,  no !  he  drew  more  tight 
The  blinding  fillet  o'er  his  lids 

To  spare  his  eyes  the  sight. 
While  mournfully  and  slowly 

The  afflicted  warriors  come, 
To  the  deep  wail  of  the  trumpet, 

And  beat  of  muffled  drum. 

Nor  Zayda  weeps  him  only, 

But  all  that  dwell  between 
The  great  Alhambra's  palace  walls 

And  springs  of  Albaicin. 
The  ladies  weep  the  flower  of  knights, 

The  brave  the  bravest  here ; 
The  people  weep  a  champion, 

The  Alcaydes  a  noble  peer. 


167 


1 6  8  TRANS  LA  TIONS. 

While  mournfully  and  slowly 
The  afflicted  warriors  come, 

To  the  deep  wail  of  the  trumpet,. 
And  beat  of  muffled  drum. 


LOVE   IN   THE  AGE   OF   CHIVALRY. 

FROM  PEYRE  VIDAL,    THE  TROUBADOUR. 

THE  earth  was  sown  with  early  flowers, 

The  heavens  were  blue  and  bright — 
I  met  a  youthful  cavalier 

As  lovely  as  the  light. 
I  knew  him  not — but  in  my  heart 

His  graceful  image  lies, 
And  well  I  marked  his  open  brow, 

His  sweet  and  tender  eyes, 
His  ruddy  lips  that  ever  smiled, 

His  glittering  teeth  betwixt, 
And  flowing  robe  embroidered  o'er, 

With  leaves  and  blossoms  mixed. 
He  wore  a  chaplet  of  the  rose  ; 

His  palfrey,  white  and  sleek, 
Was  marked  with  many  an  ebon  spot, 

And  many  a  purple  streak  ; 
Of  jasper  was  his  saddle-bo\v, 

His  housings  sapphire  stone, 
And  brightly  in  his  stirrup  glanced 

The  purple  calcedon. 
Fast  rode  the  gallant  cavalier, 

As  ycuthful  horsemen  ride  ; 


THE  LOVE   OF  GOD. 

"  Peyre  Vidal!  know  that  I  am  Love," 
The  blooming  stranger  cried  ; 

"  And  this  is  Mercy  by  my  side, 
A  dame  of  high  degree ; 

This  maid  is  Chastity,"  he  said, 
"This  squire  is  Loyalty." 


THE   LOVE   OF   GOD. 

FROM   THE  PROVENCAL  OF  BERNARD   RASCAS. 

ALL  things  that  are  on  earth  shall  wholly  pass  away, 
Except  the  love  of  God,  which  shall  live  and  last  for  aye. 
The  forms  of  men  shall  be  as  they  had  never  been ; 
The  blasted  groves  shall  lose  their  fresh  and  tender  green  ; 
The  birds  of  the  thicket  shall  end  their  pleasant  song, 
And  the  nightingale  shall  cease  to  chant  the  evening  long ; 
The  kine  of  the  pasture  shall  feel  the  dart  that  kills, 
And  all  the  fair  white  flocks  shall  perish  from  the  hills. 
The  goat  and  an  tiered  stag,  the  wolf  and  the  fox, 
The  wild-boar  of  the  wood,  and  the  chamois  of  the  rocks, 
And  the  strong  and  fearless  bear,  in  the  trodden  dust  shall  lie 
And  the  dolphin  of  the  sea,  and  the  mighty  whale,  shall  die. 
And  realms  shall  be  dissolved,  and  empires  be  no  more, 
And  they  shall  bow  to  death,  who  ruled  from  shore  to  shore ; 
And  the  great  globe  itself,  so  the  holy  writings  tell, 
With  the  rolling  firmament,  where  the  starry  armies  dwell, 
Shall  melt  with  fervent  heat — they  shall  all  pass  away, 
Except  the  love  of  God,  which  shall  live  and  last  for  aye. 

15 


TRANSLATIONS. 


FROM   THE   SPANISH   OF   PEDRO   DE   CASTRO  Y 
ANAYA. 

STAY,  rivulet,  nor  haste  to  leave 
The  lovely  vale  that  lies  around  thee. 

Why  wouldst  thou  be  a  sea  at  eve, 
When  but  a  fount  the  morning  found  thee  .•• 

Born  when  the  skies  began  to  glow, 

Humblest  of  all  the  rock's  cold  daughters, 

No  blossom  bowed  its  stalk  to  show 
Where  stole  thy  still  and  scanty  waters. 

Now  on  thy  stream  the  noonbeams  look, 
Usurping,  as  thou  downward  driftest. 

Its  crystal  from  the  clearest  brook, 
Its  rushing  current  from  the  swiftest. 

Ah  !  what  wild  haste  ! — and  all  to  be 

A  river  and  expire  in  ocean. 
Each  fountain's  tribute  hurries  thee 

To  that  vast  grave  with  quicker  motion. 

Far  better  'twere  to  linger  still 

In  this  green  vale,  these  flowers  to  cherish, 

And  die  in  peace,  an  aged  rill, 

Than  thus,  a  youthful  Danube,  perish. 


And  forest-walks  can  witness 
The  love  I  bear  to  him. 

SONG,  p.  171. 


SONNE  T.  —SONG.  j 

SONNET. 

FROM  THE  PORTUGUESE  OF  SEMEDO, 

IT  is  a  fearful  night ;  a  feeble  glare 

Streams  from  the  sick  moon  in  the  o'erclouded  sky ; 

The  ridgy  billows,  with  a  mighty  cry, 
Rush  on  the  foamy  beaches  wild  and  bare  ; 
No  bark  the  madness  of  the  waves  will  dare ; 

The  sailors  sleep ;  the  winds  are  loud  and  high. 

Ah,  peerless  Laura !  for  whose  love  I  die, 
Who  gazes  on  thy  smiles  while  I  despair  ? 

As  thus,  in  bitterness  of  heart,  I  cried, 
I  turned,  and  saw  my  Laura,  kind  and  bright, 

A  messenger  of  gladness,  at  my  side  : 
To  my  poor  bark  she  sprang  with  footstep  light, 

And  as  we  furrowed  Tago's  heaving  tide, 
I  never  saw  so  beautiful  a  night. 


SONG. 

FROM   THE  SPANISH  OF  IGLESIAS. 

ALEXIS  calls  me  cruel : 
The  rifted  crags  that  hold 

The  gathered  ice  of  winter, 
He  says,  are  not  more  cold. 

When  even  the  very  blossoms 
Around  the  fountain's  brim, 

And  forest-walks,  can  witness 
The  love  I  bear  to  him. 


TRANSLATIONS. 

I  would  that  I  could  utter 
My  feelings  without  shame, 

And  tell  him  how  I  love  him, 
Nor  wrong  my  virgin  fame. 

Alas !  to  seize  the  moment 
When  heart  inclines  to  heart, 

And  press  a  suit  with  passion, 
Is  not  a  woman's  part. 

If  man  come  not  to  gather 
The  roses  where  they  stand, 

They  fade  among  their  foliage ; 
They  cannot  seek  his  hand. 


THE    COUNT    OF    GREIERS. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  UHLAND. 

AT  morn  the  Count  of  Greiers  before  his  castle  stands  ; 
He  sees  afar  the  glory  that  lights  the  mountain-lands  ; 
The  horned  crags  are  shining,  and  in  the  shade  between 
A  pleasant  Alpine  valley  lies  beautifully  green. 

"  Oh,  greenest  of  the  valleys,  how  shall  I  come  to  thee  ! 
Thy  herdsmen  and  thy  maidens,  how  happy  must  they  be  ! 
I  have  gazed  upon  thee  coldly,  all  lovely  as  thou  art, 
But  the  wish  to  walk  thy  pastures  now  stirs  my  inmost  heart." 

He  hears  a  sound  of  timbrels,  and  suddenly  appear 
A  troop  of  ruddy  damsels  and  herdsmen  drawing  near : 
They  reach  the  castle  greensward,  and  gayly  dance  across  ; 
The  white  sleeves  flit  and  glimmer,  the  wreaths  and  ribbons  toss. 


THE  SERENADE. 

I  saw,  from  this  fair  region, 
The  smile  of  summer  pass, 

And  myriad  frost-stars  glitter 
Among  the  russet  grass. 

While  winter  seized  the  streamlets 
That  fled  along  the  ground, 

And  fast  in  chains  of  crystal 
The  truant  murmurers  bound. 

I  saw  that  to  the  forest 
The  nightingales  had  flown, 

And  every  sweet- voiced  fountain 
Had  hushed  its  silver  tone. 

The  maniac  winds,  divorcing 
The  turtle  from  his  mate, 

Raved  through  the  leafy  beeches, 
And  left  them  desolate. 

Now  May,  with  life  and  music, 
The  blooming  valley  fills, 

And  rears  her  flowery  arches 
For  all  the  little  rills. 

The  minstrel  bird  of  evening 
Comes  back  on  joyous  wings, 

And,  like  the  harp's  soft  murmur, 
Is  heard  the  gush  of  springs. 

And  deep  within  the  forest 
Are  wedded  turtles  seen, 

Their  nuptial  chambers  seeking, 
Their  chambers  close  and  green. 


'75 


TRANSLA  TIONS. 

The  rugged  trees  are  mingling 
Their  flowery  sprays  in  love ; 

The  ivy  climbs  the  laurel, 
To  clasp  the  boughs  above. 

They  change — but  thou,  Lisena, 
Art  cold  while  I  complain  : 

Why  to  thy  lover  only 

Should  spring  return  in  vain  ? 


A    NORTHERN    LEGEND 

FROM   THE   GERMAN    OF   UIILAND. 

THERE  sits  a  lovely  maiden, 
The  ocean  murmuring  nigh  ; 

She  throws  the  hook,  and  watches  ; 
The  fishes  pass  it  by. 

A  ring,  with  a  red  jewel, 
Is  sparkling  on  her  hand ; 

Upon  the  hook  she  binds  it, 
And  flings  it  from  the  land. 

Uprises  from  the  water 

A  hand  like  ivory  fair. 
What  gleams  upon  its  finger  ? 

The  golden  ring  is  there. 

Uprises  from  the  bottom 
A  young  and  handsome  knight ; 

In  golden  scales  he  rises, 
That  glitter  in  the  light. 


THE  PARADISE   OF  TEARS. 

The  maid  is  pale  with  terror — 
"  Nay,  Knight  of  Ocean,  nay, 

It  was  not  thou  I  wanted ; 
Let  go  the  ring,  I  pray." 

"Ah,  maiden,  not  to  fishes 
The  bait  of  gold  is  thrown  ; 

Thy  ring  shall  never  leave  me, 
And  thou  must  be  my  own." 


THE    PARADISE    OF    TEARS. 

i< 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  N.    MUELLER. 

BESIDE  the  River  of  Tears,  with  branches  low, 
And  bitter  leaves,  the  weeping-willows  grow  ; 
The  branches  stream  like  the  dishevelled  hair 
Of  women  in  the  sadness  of  despair. 

On  rolls  the  stream  with  a  perpetual  sigh; 
The  rocks  moan  wildly  as  it  passes  by ; 
Hyssop  and  wormwood  border  all  the  strand, 
And  not  a  flower  adorns  the  dreary  land. 

Then  comes  a  child,  whose  face  is  like  the  sun, 
And  dips  the  gloomy  waters  as  they  run, 
And  waters  all  the  region,  and  behold 
The  ground  is  bright  with  blossoms  manifold. 

Where  fall  the  tears  of  love  the  rose  appears, 

And  where  the  ground  is  bright  with  friendship's  tears, 


177 


TRANSLA  TION3. 

Forget-me-not,  and  violets,  heavenly  blue, 
Spring,  glittering  with  the  cheerful  drops  like  dew. 

The  souls  of  mourners,  all  whose  tears  are  dried, 
Like  swans,  come  gently  floating  down  the  tide, 
Walk  up  the  golden  sands  by  which  it  flows, 
And  in  that  Paradise  of  Tears  repose. 

There  every  heart  rejoins  its  kindred  heart ; 
There,  in  a  long  embrace  that  none  may  part, 
Fulfilment  meets  desire,  and  that  fair  shore 
Beholds  its  dwellers  happy  evermore. 


THE  LADY  OF  CASTLE  WINDECK. 


FROM  THE   GERMAN  OF  CHAMTSSO. 


REIN  in  thy  snorting  charger  ! 

That  stag  but  cheats  thy  sight ; 
He  is  luring  thee  on  to  Windeck, 

With  his  seeming  fear  and  flight. 

Now,  where  the  mouldering  turrets 

Of  the  outer  gate  arise, 
The  knight  gazed  over  the  ruins 

Where  the  stag  was  lost  to  his  eyes. 

The  sun  shone  hot  above  him ; 

The  castle  was  still  as  death ; 
He  wiped  the  sweat  from  his  forehead, 

With  a  deep  and  weary  breath. 


THE  LA£>Y  OF  CASTLE    WINDECK.  179 

"  Who  now  will  bring  me  a  beaker 

Of  the  rich  old  wine  that  here, 
In  the  choked-up  vaults  of  Windeck, 

Has  lain  for  many  a  year  ?  " 

The  careless  words  had  scarcely 

Time  from  his  lips  to  fall, 
When  the  Lady  of  Castle  Windeck, 

Came  round  the  ivy-wall. 

He  saw  the  glorious  maiden 

In  her  snow-white  drapery  stand, 
The  bunch  of  keys  at  her  girdle, 

The  beaker  high  in  her  hand. 

He  quaffed  that  rich  old  vintage ; 

With  an  eager  lip  he  quaffed ; 
But  he  took  into  his  bosom 

A  fire  with  the  grateful  draught. 

Her  eyes'  unfathomed  biightness  ! 

The  flowing  gold  of  her  hair ! 
He  folded  his  hands  in  homage, 

And  murmured  a  lover's  prayer. 

She  gave  him  a  look  of  pity, 

A  gentle  look  of  pain ; 
And,  quickly  as  he  had  seen  her, 

She  passed  from  his  sight  again. 

And  ever,  from  that  moment, 

He  haunted  the  ruins  there, 
A  sleepless,  restless  wanderer, 

A  watcher  with  despair. 


TRANSLATIONS.  % 

Ghost-like  and  pale  he  wandered, 
With  a  dreamy,  haggard  eye  ; 

He  seemed  not  one  of  the  living, 
And  yet  he  could  not  die. 

'Tis  said  that  the  lady  met  him, 
When  many  years  had  past, 

And  kissing  his  lips,  released  him 
From  the  burden  of  life  at  last. 


Your  peaks  are  beautiful,  ye  Apennines  ! 

To  THE  APENNINES,  p.  181. 


LATER    POEMS. 


TO   THE  APENNINES. 

YOUR  peaks  are  beautiful,  ye  Apennines  ! 

In  the  soft  light  of  these  serenest  skies  ; 
From  the  broad  highland  region,  black  with  pines, 

Fair  as  the  hills  of  Paradise  they  rise, 
Bathed  in  the  tint  Peruvian  slaves  behold 
In  rosy  flushes  on  the  virgin  gold. 

There,  jrooted  to  the  aerial  shelves  that  wear 
The  glory  of  a  brighter  world,  might  spring 

Sweet  flowers  of  heaven  to  scent  the  unbreathed  air, 
And  heaven's  fleet  messengers  might  rest  the  wing 

To  view  the  fair  earth  in  its  summer  sleep, 

Silent,  and  cradled  by  the  glimmering  deep. 

Below  you  lie  men's  sepulchres,  the  old 
Etrurian  tombs,  the  graves  of  yesterday ; 

The  herd's  white  bones  lie  mixed  with  human  mould, 
Yet  up  the  radiant  steeps  that  I  survey 

"Death  never  climbed,  nor  life's  soft  breath,  with  pain, 

Was  yielded  to  the  elements  again. 


1 82  LATER  POEMS. 

Ages  of  war  have  filled  these  plains  with  fear; 

How  oft  the  hind  has  started  at  the  clash 
Of  spears,  and  yell  of  meeting  armies  here, 

Or  seen  the  lightning  of  the  battle  flash 
From  clouds,  that  rising  with  the  thunder's  sound, 
Hung  like  an  earth-born  tempest  o'er  the  ground  ! 

Ah  me  !  what  armed  nations — Asian  horde, 
And  Libyan  host,  the  Scythian  and  the  Gaul — 

Have  swept  your  base  and  through  your  passes  poured, 
Like  ocean-tides  uprising  at  the  call 

Of  tyrant  winds — against  your  rocky  side 

The  bloody  billows  dashed,  and  howled,  and  died  ! 

How  crashed  the  towers  before  beleaguering  foes, 
Sacked  cities  smoked  and  realms  were  rent  in  twain  ; 

And  commonwealths  against  their  rivals  rose, 

Trode  out  their  lives  and  earned  the  curse  of  Cain ! 

While,  in  the  noiseless  air  and  light  that  flowed 

Round  your  fair  brows,  eternal  Peace  abode. 

Here  pealed  the  impious  hymn,  and  altar-flames 
Rose  to  false  gods,  a  dream-begotten  throng, 

Jove,  Bacchus,  Pan,  and  earlier,  fouler  names-; 
While,  as  the  unheeding  ages  passed  along, 

Ye,  from  your  station  in  the  middle  skies, 

Proclaimed  the  essential  Goodness,  strong  and  wi.se. 

In  you  the  heart  that  sighs  for  freedom  seeks 
Her  image ;  there  the  winds  no  barrier  know, 

Clouds  come  and  rest  and  leave  your  fairy  peaks  ; 
While  even  the  immaterial  Mind,  below, 

And  Thought,  her  winged  offspring,  chained  by  power, 

Pine  silently  for  tne  redeeming  hour. 


EARTH.  i8j 

A  story  of  the  crimes  the  guilty  sought 

To  hide  beneath  its  waves.     The  glens,  the  groves, 

Paths  in  the  thicket,  pools  of  running  brook, 

And  banks  and  depths  of  lake,  and  streets  and  lanes 

Of  cities,  now  that  living  sounds  are  hushed, 

Murmur  of  guilty  force  and  treachery. 

Here,  where  I  rest,  the  vales  of  Italy 
Are  round  me,  populous  from  early  time, 
And  field  of  the  tremendous  warfare  waged 
'Twixt  good  and  evil.     Who,  alas  !  shall  dare 
Interpret  to  man's  ear  the  mingled  voice 
That  comes  from  her  old  dungeons  yawning  now 
To  the  black  air,  her  amphitheatres, 
Where  the  dew  gathers  on  the  mouldering  stones, 
And  fanes  of  banished  gods,  and  open  tombs, 
And  roofless  palaces,  and  streets  and  hearths 
Of  cities  dug  from  their  volcanic  graves  ? 
I  hear  a  sound  of  many  languages, 
The  utterance  of  nations  now  no  more, 
Driven  out  by  mightier,  as  the  days  of  heaven 
Chase  one  another  from  the  sky.     The  blood 
Of  freemen  shed  by  freenien,  till  strange  lords 
Came  in  their  hour  of  weakness,  and  made  fast 
The  yoke  that  yet  is  worn,  cries  out  to  heaven. 

What  then  shall  cleanse  thy  bosom,  gentle  Earth, 
From  all  its  painful  memories  of  guilt  ? 
The  whelming  flood,  or  the  renewing  fire, 
Or  the  slow  change  of  time  ? — that  so,  at  last, 
The  horrid  tale  of  perjury  and  strife, 
Murder  and  spoil,  which  men  call  history, 
May  seem  a  fable,  like  the  inventions  told 
By  poets  of  the  gods  of  Greece.     O  thou, 


186  LATER  POEMS. 

Who  sittest  far  beyond  the  Atlantic  deep, 
Among  the  sources  of  thy  glorious  streams, 
My  native  Land  of  Groves  !  a  newer  page 
In  the  great  record  of  the  world  is  thine ; 
Shall  it  be  fairer  ?     Fear,  and  friendly  Hope, 
And  Envy,  watch  the  issue,  while  the  lines, 
By  which  thou  shalt  be  judged,  are  written  down. 


THE   KNIGHT'S   EPITAPH. 

THIS  is  the  church  which  Pisa,  great  and  free, 
Reared  to  St.  Catharine.     How  the  time-stained  walls, 
That  earthquakes  shook  not  from  their  poise,  appear 
To  shiver  in  the  deep  and  voluble  tones 
Rolled  from  the  organ  !     Underneath  my  feet 
There  lies  the  lid  of  a  sepulchral  vault. 
The  image  of  an  armed  knight  is  graven 
Upon  it,  clad  in  perfect  panoply — 
Cuishes,  and  greaves,  and  cuirass,  with  barred  helm, 
Gauntleted  hand,  and  sword,  and  blazoned  shield. 
Around,  in  Gothic  characters,  worn  dim 
By  feet  of  worshippers,  are  traced  his  name, 
And  birth,  and  death,  and  words  of  eulogy. 
Why  should  I  pore  upon  them  ?     This  old  tomb, 
This  effigy,  the  strange  disused  form 
Of  this  inscription,  eloquently  show 
His  history.     Let  me  clothe  in  fitting  words 
The  thoughts  they  breathe,  and  frame  his  epitanh  : 

"  He  whose  forgotten  dust  for  centuries 
Has  lain  beneath  this  stone,  was  one  in  whom 
Adventure,  and  endurance,  and  emprise, 


THE  KNIGHT'S  EPITAPH.  187 

Exalted  the  mind's  faculties  and  strung 

The  body's  sinews.     Brave  he  was  in  fight, 

Courteous  in  banquet,  scornful  of  repose, 

And  bountiful,  aiid  cruel,  and  devout, 

And  quick  to  draw  the  sword  in  private  feud, 

He  pushed  his  quarrels  to  the  death,  yet  prayed 

The  saints  as  fervently  on  bended  knees 

As  ever  shaven  cenobite.     He  loved 

As  fiercely  as  he  fought.     He  would  have  borne 

The  maid  that  pleased  him  from  her  bower  by  night 

To  his  hill-castle,  as  the  eagle  bears 

His  victim  from  the  fold,  and  rolled  the  rocks 

On  his  pursuers.     He  aspired  to  see 

His  native  Pisa  queen  and  arbitress 

Of  cities  :  earnestly  for  her  he  raised 

His  voice  in  council,  and  affronted  death 

In  battle-field,  and  climbed  the  galley's  deck, 

And  brought  the  captured  flag  of  Genoa  back, 

Or  piled  upon  the  Arno's  crowded  quay 

The  glittering  spoils  of  the  tamed  Saracen. 

He  was  not  born  to  brook  the  stranger's  yoke, 

But  would  have  joined  the  exiles  that  withdrew 

Forever,  when  the  Florentine  broke  in 

The  gates  of  Pisa,  and  bore  off  the  bolts 

For  trophies — but  he  died  before  that  day. 

"  He  lived,  the  impersonation  of  an  age 
That  never  shall  return.     His  soul  of  fire 
Was  kindled  by  the  breath  of  the  rude  time 
He  lived  in.     Now  a  gentler  race  succeeds, 
Shuddering  at  blood ;  the  effeminate  cavalier, 
Turning  his  eyes  from  the  reproachful  past, 
And  from  the  hopeless  future,  gives  to  ease, 
And  love,  and  music,  his  inglorious  life." 


1 38  LATER  POEMS. 


THE   HUNTER   OF   THE   PRAIRIES. 

AY,  this  is  freedom ! — these  pure  skies 

Were  never  stained  with  village  smoke  : 
The  fragrant  wind,  that  through  them  flies, 

Is  breathed  from  wastes  by  plough  unbroke. 
Here,  with  my  rifle  and  my  steed, 

And  her  who  left  the  world  for  me, 
I  plant  me,  where  the  red  deer  feed 

In  the  green  desert — and  am  free. 

For  here  the  fair  savannas  know     . 

No  barriers  in  the  bloomy  grass ; 
Wherever  breeze  of  heaven  may  blow, 

Or- beam  of  heaven  may  glance,  I  pass. 
In  pastures,  measureless  as  air, 

The  bison  is  my  noble  game ; 
The  bounding  elk,  whose  antlers  tear 

The  branches,  falls  before  my  aim. 

Mine  are  the  river-fowl  that  scream 

From  the  long  stripe  of  waving  sedge ; 
The  bear  that  marks  my  weapon's  gleam, 

Hides  vainly  in  the  forest's  edge ; 
In  vain  the  she-wolf  stands  at  bay ; 

The  brinded  catamount,  that  lies 
High  in  the  boughs  to  watch  his  prey, 

Even  in  the  act  of  springing,  dies. 

With  what  free  growth  the  elm  and  plane 
Fling  their  huge  arms  across  my  way, 

Gray,  old,  and  cumbered  with  a  train 
Of  vines,  as  huge,  and  old,  and  gray  ! 


THE  HUNTER   OF  THE  PRAIRIES.  189 

Free  stray  trie  lucid  streams,  and  find 
No  taint  in  these  fresh  lawns  and  shades ; 

Free  spring  the  flowers  that  scent  the  wind 
Where  never  scythe  has  swept  the  glades. 

Alone  the  Fire,  when  frost-winds  sere 

The  heavy  herbage  of  the  ground, 
Gathers  his  annual  harvest  here, 

With  roaring  like  the  battle's  sound. 
And  hurrying  flames  that  sweep  the  plain, 

And  smoke-strearns  gushing  up  the  sky  : 
I  meet  the  flames  with  flames  again, 

And  at  my  door  they  cower  and  die. 

Here,  from  dim  woods,  the  aged  past 

Speaks  solemnly  ;  and  I  behold 
The  boundless  future  in  the  vast 

And  lonely  river,  seaward  rolled. 
Who  feeds  its  founts  with  rain  and  dew 

Who  moves,  I  ask,  its  gliding  mass, 
And  trains  the  bordering  vines,  whose  blue 

Bright  clusters  tempt  me  as  I  pass  ? 

Broad  are  these  streams — my  steed  obeys, 

Plunges,  and  bears  me  through  the  tide. 
Wide  are  these  woods — I  thread  the  maze 

Of  giant  stems,  nor  as-k  a  guide. 
I  hunt  till  day's  last  glimmer  dies 

O'er  woody  vale  and  grassy  height ; 
And  kind  the  voice  and  glad  the  eyes 

That  welcome  my  return  at  night. 


1QO 


LATER  POEMS. 


SEVENTY-SIX. 

WHAT  heroes  from  the  woodland  sprung, 
When,  through  the  fresh-awakened  land, 

The  thrilling  cry  of  freedom  rung, 

And  to  the  work  of  warfare  strung 
The  yeoman's  iron  hand  I 

Hills  flung  the  cry  to  hills  around, 

And  ocean-mart  replied  to  mart, 
And  streams,  whose'springs  were  yet  unfound, 
Pealed  far  away  the  startling  sound 

Into  the  forest's  heart. 

Then  marched  the  brave  from  rocky  steep, 

From  mountain-river  swift  and  cold ; 
The  borders  of  the  stormy  deep, 
The  vales  where  gathered  waters  sleep, 
Sent  up  the  strong  and  bold, — 

As  if  the  very  earth  again 

Grew  quick  with  God's  creating  breath, 
And,  from  the  sods  of  grove  and  glen, 
Rose  ranks  of  lion-hearted  men 

To  battle  to  the  death. 

The  wife,  whose  babe  first  smiled  thc-t  day, 

The  fair  fond  bride  of  yestereve, 
And  aged  sire  and  matron  gray, 
Saw  the  loved  warriors  haste  away, 

And  deemed  it  sin  to  grieve. 

Already  had  the  strife  begun  ; 

Already  blood,  on  Concord's  plain, 


THE   LIVING  LOST. 

Along  the  springing  grass  had  run, 
And  blood  had  flowed  at  Lexington, 
Like  brooks  of  April  rain. 

That  death-stain  on  the  vernal  sward 
Hallowed  to  freedom  all  the  shore  ; 
In  fragments  fell  the  yoke  abhorred— 
The  footstep  of  a  foreign  lord 
Profaned  the  soil  no  more. 


THE   LIVING   LOST. 

MATRON  !  the  children  of  whose  love. 

Each  to  his  grave,  in  youth  have  pussed ; 
And  now  the  mould  is  heaped  above 

The  dearest  and  the  last ! 
Bride !  who  dost  wear  the  widow's  veil 
Before  the  wedding  flowers  are  pile  ! 
Ye  deem  the  human  heart  endures 
No  deeper,  bitterer  grief  than  yours. 

Yet  there  are  pangs  of  keener  woe, 

Of  which  the  sufferers  never  speak , 
Nor  to  the  world's  cold  pity  show 
The  tears  that  scald  the  cheek, 
Wrung  from  their  eyelids  by  the  shame 
And  guilt  of  those  they  shrink  to  name. 
Whom  once  they  loved  with  cheerful  will 
And  love,  though  fallen  and  branded,  still. 

Weep,  ye  who  sorrow  for  the  dead, 

Thus  breaking  hearts  their  pain  relieve, 


j  9  2  LA  TER  POEMS. 

And  reverenced  are  the  tears  ye  slied, 

And  honored  ye  who  grieve. 
The  praise  of  those  who  sleep  in  earth, 
The  pleasant  memory  of  their  worth, 
The  hope  to  meet  when  life  is  past, 
Shall  heal  the  tortured  mind  at  last. 

But  ye,  who  for  the  living  lost 

That  agony  in  secret  bear, 
Who  shall  with  soothing  words  accost 

The  strength  of  your  despair  ? 
Grief  for  your  sake  is  scorn  for  them 
Whom  ye  lament  and  all  condemn  ; 
And  o'er  the  world  of  spirits  lies 
A  gloom  from  which  ye  turn  your  eyes. 


CATTERSKILL   FALLS. 

MIDST  greens  and  shades  the  Catterskill  leaps, 
From  cliffs  where  the  wood-flower  clings  ; 

All  summer  he  moistens  his  verdant  steeps 

With  the  sweet  light  spray  of  the  mountain-springs, 

And  he  shakes  the  woods  on  the  mountain-side, 

When  they  drip  with  the  rains  of  autumn-tide. 

But  when,  in  the  forest  bare  and  old, 

The  blast  of  December  calls, 
He  builds,  in  the  starlight  clear  and  cold, 

A  palace  of  ice  where  his  torrent  falls, 
With  turret,  and  arch,  and  fretwork  fair, 
And  pillars  blue  as  the  summer  air. 


CATTERSKILL  FALLS. 

For  whom  are  those  glorious  chambers  wrought, 

In  the  cold  and  cloudless  night  ? 
Is  there  neither  spirit  nor  motion  of  thought 

In  forms  so  lovely,  and  hues  so  bright  ? 
Hear  what  the  gray-haired  woodmen  tell 
Of  this  wild  stream  and  its  rocky  dell  • 

'Twas  hither  a  youth  of  dreamy  mood, 

A  hundred  winters  ago, 
Had  wandered  over  the  mighty  wood, 

When  the  panther's  track  was  fresh  on  the  snow, 
And  keen  were  the  winds  that  came  to  stir 
The  long  dark  boughs  of  the  hemlock-fir. 

Too  gentle  of  mien  he  seemed  and  fair, 

For  a  child  of  those  rugged  steeps ; 
His  home  lay  low  in  the  valley  where 

The  kingly  Hudson  rolls  to  the  deeps  ; 
But  he  wore  the  hunter's  frock  that  day, 
And  a  slender  gun  on  his  shoulder  lay. 

And  here  he  paused,  and  against  the  trunk 

Of  a  tall  gray  linden  leant, 
When  the  broad  clear  orb  of  the  sun  had  sunk, 

From  his  path  in  the  frosty  firmament, 
And  over  the  round  dark  edge  of  the  hill 
A  cold  green  light  was  quivering  still. 

And  the  crescent  moon,  high  over  the  green, 

From  a  sky  of  crimson  shone, 
On  that  icy  palace,  whose  towers  were  seen 

To  sparkle  as  if  with  stars  of  their  own  , 
While  the  water  fell  with  a  hollow  sound, 
'Twixt  the  glistening  pillars  ranged  around. 


193 


194 


LATER  POEMS. 


Is  that  a  being  of  life,  that  moves 

Where  the  crystal  battlements  rise  ? 
A  maiden  watching  the  moon  she  loves, 

At  the  twilight  hour,  with  pensive  eyes  ? 
Was  that  a  garment  which  seemed  to  gleam 
Betwixt  the  eye  and  the  falling  stream  ? 

'Tis  only  the  torrent  tumbling  o'er, 

In  the  midst  of  those  glassy  walls, 
Gushing,  and  plunging,- and  beating  the  floor 

Of  the  rocky  basin  in  which  it  falls. 
'Tis  only  the  torrent — but  why  that  start  ? 
Why  gazes  the  youth  with  a  throbbing  heart  ? 

He  thinks  no  more  of  his  home  afar, 

Where  his  sire  and  sister  wait. 
He  heeds  no  longer  how  star  after  star  ' 

Looks  forth  on  the  night  as  the  hour  grows  late. 
He  heeds  not  the  snow-wreaths,  lifted  and  cast 
From  a  thousand  boughs,  by  the  rising  blast. 

His  thoughts  ar£  alone  of  those  who  dwell 

In  the  halls  of  frost  and  snow, 
Who  pass  where  the  crystal  domes  upswell 

From  the  alabaster  floors  below, 
Where  the  frost-trees  shoot  with  leaf  and  spray, 
And  frost-gems  scatter  a  silvery  day. 

"  And  oh  that  those  glorious  haunts  were  mine  !  " 
He  speaks,  and  throughout  the  glen 

Thin  shadows  swim  in  the  faint  moonshine, 
And  take  a  ghastly  likeness  of  men, 

As  if  the  slain  by  the  wintry  storms 

Came  forth  to  the  air  in  their  earthly  forms. 


CATTERSKILL  FALLS. 


195 


There  pass  the  chasers  of  seal  and  whale, 

With  their  weapons  quaint  and  grim, 
And  bands  of  warriors  in  glittering  mail, 

And  herdsmen  and  hunters  huge  of  limb, 
There  are  naked  arms,  with  bow  and  spear, 
And  furry  gauntlets  the  carbine  rear. 

There  are  mothers — and  oh  how  sadly  their  eyes. 

On  their  children's  white  brows  rest ! 
There  are  youthful  lovers — the  maiden  lies. 

In  a  seeming  sleep,  on  the  chosen  breast ; 
There  are  fair  wan  women  with  moonstruck  air, 
The  snow-stars  flecking  their  long  loose  hair. 

They  eye  him  not  as  they  pass  along, 

But  his  hair  stands  up  with  dread, 
When  he  feels  that  he  moves  with  that  phantom  throng, 

Till  those  icy  turrets  are  over  his  head, 
And  the  torrent's  roar  as  they  enter  seems 
Like  a  drowsy  murmur  heard  in  dreams. 

The  glittering  threshold  is  scarcely  passed, 
When  there  gathers  and  wraps  him  round 

A  thick  white  twilight,  sullen  and  vast, 
In  which  there  is  neither  form  nor  sound ; 

The  phantoms,  the  glory,  vanish  all, 

With  the  dying  voice  of  the  waterfall. 

Slow  passes  the  darkness  of  that  trance, 

And  the  youth  now  faintly  sees 
Huge  shadows  and  gushes  of  light  that  dance 

On  a  rugged  ceiling  of  unhewn  trees, 
And  walls  where  the  skins  of  beasts  are  hung, 
And  rifles  glitter  on  antlers  strung. 


196  LATER  POEMS. 

On  a  couch  of  shaggy  skins  he  lies  ; 

As  he  strives  to  raise  his  head, 
Hard-featured  woodmen,  with  kindly  eyes, 

Come  round  him  and  smooth  his  furry  bed, 
And  bid  him  rest,  for  the  evening  star 
Is  scarcely  set  and  the  day  is  far. 

They  had  found  at  eve  the  dreaming  one 

By  the  base  of  that  icy  steep, 
When  over  his  stiffening  limbs  begun 

The  deadly  slumber  of  frost  to  creep, 
And  they  cherished  the  pale  and  breathless  form, 
Till  the  stagnant  blood  ran  free  and  warm. 


THE    STRANGE   LADY. 

THE  summer  morn  is  bright  and  fresh,  the  birds  are  darting  by, 
As  if  they  loved  to  breast  the  breeze  that  sweeps  the  cool  clear  sky ; 
Young  Albert,  in  the  forest's  edge,  has  heard  a  rustling  sound, 
An  arrow  slightly  strikes  his  hand  and  falls  upon  the  ground. 

A  dark-haired  woman  from  the  wood  comes  suddenly  in  sight ; 
Her  merry  eye  is  full  and  black,  her  cheek  is  brown  and  bright ; 
Her  gown  is  of  the  mid-sea  blue,  her  belt  with  beads  is  strung, 
And  yet  she  speaks  in  gentle  tomes,  and  in  the  English  tongue. 

"  It  was  an  idle  bolt  I  sent,  against  the  villain  crow; 

Fair  sir,  I  fear  it  harmed  thy  hand ;  beshrew  my  erring  bow !  "    <• 

"Ah!  would  that  bolt  had  not  been  spent!  then,  lady,  might  I 

wear 
A  lasting  token  on  my  hand  of  one  so  passing  fair !  " 


A  dark-haired  woman  from  the  w ood  c .  •  -:ht. 

THE  STRANGE  I 
I 


•  eve  the  drea 
(,  of  that  k 


. 


' 
Is  strunj 


A  dark-haired  woman  from  the  \vood  comes  suddenly  in  sight.  » 

THE  STRANGE  LADY,  p.  196, 


. 


198 


- 


that 


of  odors 


Oh  Life  !  I  breathe  thee  in  the  breeze, 
I  feel  thee  bounding  in  my  veins. 

LIFE,  p.  19 


THE  HUNTER'S   VISION.  2O1 


THE   HUNTER'S   VISION. 

UPON  a  rock  that,  high  and  sheer, 
Rose  from  the  mountain's  breast, 

A  weary  hunter  of  the  deer 
Had  sat  him  down  to  rest, 

And  bared  to  the  soft  summer  air 

His  hot  red  brow  and  sweaty  hair. 

All  dim  in  haze  the  mountains  lay, 
With  dimmer  vales  between ; 

And  rivers  glimmered  on  their  way 
By  forests  faintly  seen  ; 

While  ever  rose  a  murmuring  sound 

From  brooks  below  and  bees  around. 

He  listened,  till  he  seemed  to  hear 

A  strain,  so  soft  and  low, 
That  whether  in  the  mind  or  ear 

The  listener  scarce  might  know. 
WTith  such  a  tone,  so  sweet,  so  mild, 
The  watching  mother  lulls  her  child. 

"  Thou  weary  huntsman,"  thus  it  said, 
"  Thou  faint  with  toil  and  heat, 

The  pleasant  land  of  rest  is  spread 
Before  thy  very  feet, 

And  those  whom  thou  wouldst  gladly  see 

Are  waiting  there  to  welcome  thee." 

He  looked,  and  'twixt  the  earth  and  sky, 

Amid  the  noontide  haze, 
A  shadowy  region  met  his  eye, 

And  grew  beneath  his  gaze, 

4 


202  LATER  POEMS. 

As  if  the  vapors  of  the  air 

Had  gathered  into  shapes  so  fair. 

Groves  freshened  as  he  looked,  and  flowers 
Showed  bright  on  rocky  bank, 

And  fountains  welled  beneath  the  bowers, 
Where  deer  and  pheasant  drank. 

He  saw  the  glittering  streams,  he  heard 

The  rustling  bough  and  twittering  bird. 

And  friends,  the  dead,  in  boyhood  dear 
There  lived  and  walked  again, 

And  there  was  one  who  many  a  year 
Within  her  grave  had  lain, 

A  fair  young  girl,  the  hamlet's  pride — 

His  heart  was  breaking  when  she  died  : 

Bounding,  as  was  her  wont,  she  came 
Right  toward  his  resting-place, 

And  stretched  her  hand  and  called  his  name 
With  that  sweet  smiling  face. 

Forward  with  fixed  and  eager  eyes, 

The  hunter  leaned  in  act  to  rise  : 

Forward  he  leaned,  and  headlong  down 
Plunged  from  that  craggy  wall ; 

He  saw  the  rocks,  steep,  stern,  and  brown, 
An  instant,  in  his  fall ; 

A  frightful  instant — and  no  more, 

The  dream  and  life  at  once  were  o'er. 


THE  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  BOYS. 


THE   GREEN   MOUNTAIN  BOYS. 


HERE  halt  we  our  march,  and  pitch  our  tent 

On  the  rugged  forest-ground, 
And  light  our  fire  with  the  branches  rent 

By  winds  from  the  beeches  round. 
Wild  storms  have  torn  this  ancient  wood, 

But  a  wilder  is  at  hand, 
With  hail  of  iron  and  rain  of  blood, 

To  sweep  and  waste  the  land. 

II. 

How  the  dark  wood  rings  with  our  voices  shrill, 

That  startle  the  sleeping  bird ; 
To-morrow  eve  must  the  voice  be  still, 

And  the  step  must  fall  unheard. 
The  Briton  lies  by  the  blue  Champlain, 

In  Ticonderoga's  towers, 
And  ere  the  sun  rise  twice  again, 

Must  they  and  the  lake  be  ours. 

III. 

Fill  up  the  bowl  from  the  brook  that  glides 

Where  the  fire-flies  light  the  brake; 
A  ruddier  juice  the  Briton  hides 

In  his  fortress  by  the  lake. 
Build  high  the  fire,  till  the  panther  leap 

From  his  lofty  perch  in  flight, 
And  we'll  strengthen  our  weary  arms  with  sleep 

For  the  deeds  of  to-morrow  night. 


204  LATER  POEMS. 


A  PRESENTIMENT. 

"  OH  father,  let  us  hence — for  hark, 
A  fearful  murmur  shakes  the  air ; 

The  clouds  are  coming  swift  and  dark ; — 
What  horrid  shapes  they  wear ! 

A  winged  giant  sails  the  sky  ; 

Oh  father,  father,  let  us  fly !  " 

"  Hush,  child ;  it  is  a  grateful  sound, 
i    That  beating  of  the  summer  shower  ; 
Here,  where  the  boughs  hang  close  around 

We'll  pass  a  pleasant  hour, 
Till  the  fresh  wind,  that  brings  the  rain, 
Has  swept  the  broad  heaven  clear  again." 

"  Nay,  father,  let  us  haste — for  see, 
That  horrid  thing  with  horned  brow — 

His  wings  o'erhang  this  very  tree, 
He  scowls  upon  us  now ; 

His  huge  black  arm  is  lifted  high ; 

Oh  father,  father,  let  us  fly  !  " 

"  Hush  child;  "  but,  as  the  father  spoke, 
Downward  the  livid  firebolt  came, 

Close  to  his  ear  the  thunder  broke, 
And,  blasted  by  the  flame, 

The  child  lay  dead ;  while  dark  and  still 

Swept  the  grim  cloud  along  the  hill. 


THE   CHILD'S  FUNERAL. 


THE   CHILD'S   FUNERAL. 

FAIR  is  thy  sight,  Sorrento,  green  thy  shore, 
Black  crags  behind  thee  pierce  the  clear  blue  skies  ; 

The  sea,  whose  borderers  ruled  the  world  of  yore, 
As  clear  and  bluer  still  before  thee  lies. 

Vesuvius  smokes  in  sight,  whose  fount  of  fire, 
Outgushing,  drowned  the  cities  on  his  steeps ; 

And  murmuring  Naples,  spire  o'ertopping  spire, 
Sits  on  the  slope  beyond  where  Virgil  sleeps. 

Here  doth  the  earth,  with  flowers  of  every  hue, 

Prank  her  green  breast  when  April  suns  are  bright ; 

Flowers  of  the  morning-red,  or  ocean-blue, 
Or  like  the  mountain-frost  of  silvery  white. 

Currents  of  fragrance,  from  the  orange-tree, 
And  sward  of  violets,  breathing  to  and  fro, 

Mingle,  and  wandering  out  upon  the  sea, 
Refresh  the  idle  boatsman  where  they  blow. 

Yet  even  here,  as  under  harsher  climes, 
Tears  for  the  loved  and  early  lost  are  shed ; 

That  soft  air  saddens  with  the  funeral-chimes, 
Those  shining  flowers  are  gathered  for  the  dead. 

Here  once  a  child,  a  smiling  playful  one, 
All  the  day  long  caressing  and  caressed, 

Died  when  its  little  tongue  had  just  begun 
To  lisp  the  names  of  those  it  loved  the  best 


205 


2o6  LATER  POEMS. 

The  father  strove  his  struggling  grief  to  quell, 
.  The  mother  wept  as  mothers  use  to  weep, 
Two  little  sisters  wearied  them  to  tell 

When  their  dear  Carlo  would  awake  from  sleep. 

Within  an  inner  room  his  couch  they  spread, 
His  funeral-couch ;  with  mingled  grief  and  love, 

They  laid  a  crown  of  roses  on  his  head, 

And  murmured,  "  Brighter  is  his  crown  above." 

They  scattered  round  him,  on  the  snowy  sheet, 
Laburnum's  strings  of  sunny-colored  gems, 

Sad  hyacinths,  and  violets  dim  and  sweet, 
And  orange-blossoms  on  their  dark-green  stems. 

And  now  the  hour  is  come,  the  priest  is  there  ; 

Torches  are  lit  and  bells  are  tolled ;  they  go, 
With  solemn  rites  of  blessing  and  of  prayer, 

To  lay  the  little  one  in  earth  below. 

The  door  is  opened ;  hark  !  that  quick  glad  cry ; 

Carlo  has  waked,  has  waked,  and  is  at  play ; 
The  little  sisters  laugh  and  leap,  and  try 

To  climb  the  bed  on  which  the  infant  lay. 

And  there  he  sits  alive,  and  gayly  shakes 

In  his  full  hands,  the  blossoms  red  and  white, 

And  smiles  with  winking  eyes,  like  one  who  wakes 
From  long  deep  slumbers  at  the  morning  light. 


THE  BATTLE-FIELD.  207 


THE  BATTLE-FIELD. 

ONCE  this  soft  turf,  this  rivulet's  sands, 
Were  trampled  by  a  hurrying  crowd, 

And  fiery  hearts  and  armed  hands 
Encountered  in  the  battle-cloud. 

Ah !  never  shall  the  land  forget 

How  gushed  the  life-blood  of  her  brave — 
Gushed,  warm  with  hope  and  courage  yet, 

Upon  the  soil  they  fought  to  save. 

Now  all  is  calm,  and  fresh,  and  still ; 

Alone  the  chirp  of  flitting  bird, 
And  talk  of  children  on  the  hill, 

And  bell  of  wandering  kine,  are  heard. 

No  solemn  host  goes  trailing  by 

The  black-mouthed  gun  and  staggering  wain  j 
Men  start  not  at  the  battle-cry, 

Oh,  be  it  never  heard  again ! 

Soon  rested  those  who  fought ;  but  thou 

Who  minglest  in  the  harder  strife 
For  truths  which  men  receive  not  now, 

Thy  warfare  only  ends  with  life. 

A  friendless  warfare  !  lingering  long 
Through  weary  day  and  weary  year. 

A  wild  and  many-weaponed  throng 

Hang  on  thy  front,  and  flank,  and  rear. 


zo8  LATER  POEMS. 

Yet  nerve  thy  spirit  to  the  proof, 
And  blench  not  at  thy  chosen  lot. 

The  timid  good  may  stand  aloof, 
The  sage  may  frown — yet  faint  thou  not. 

Nor  heed  the  shaft  too  surely  cast, 
The  foul  and  hissing  bolt  of  scorn ; 

For  with  thy  side  shall  dwell,  at  last, 
The  victory  of  endurance  born. 

Truth,  crushed  to  earth,  shall  rise  again ; 

Th'  eternal  years  of  God  are  hers  ; 
But  Error,  wounded,  writhes  in  pain, 

And  dies  among  his  worshippers. 

Yea,  though  thou  lie  upon  the  dust, 

When  they  who  helped  thee  flee  in  fear, 

Die  full  of  hope  and  manly  trust, 
Like  those  who  fell  in  battle  here. 

Another  hand  thy  sword  shall  wield, 
Another  hand  the  standard  wave, 

Till  from  the  trumpet's  mouth  is  pealed 
The  blast  of  triumph  o'er  thy  grave. 


THE   FUTURE   LIFE. 

How  shall  I  know  thee  in  the  sphere  which  keeps 
The  disembodied  spirits  of  the  dead, 

When  all  of  thee  that  time  could  wither  sleeps 
And  perishes  among  the  dust  we  tread  ? 


THE  FUTURE  LIFE.  2og 

For  I  shall  feel  the  sting  of  ceaseless  pain 

If  there  I  meet  thy  gentle  presence  not ; 
Nor  hear  the  voice  I  love,  nor  read  again 

In  thy  serenest  eyes  the  tender  thought. 

Will  not  thy  own  meek  heart  demand  me  there  ? 

That  heart  whose  fondest  throbs  to  me  were  given  — 
My  name  on  earth  was  ever  in  thy  prayer, 

And  wilt  thou  never  utter  it  in  heaven  ? 

In  meadows  fanned  by  heaven's  life -breathing  wind, 
In  the  resplendence  of  that  glorious  sphere, 

And  larger  movements  of  the  unfettered  mind, 
Wilt  thou  forget  the  love  that  joined  us  here  ? 

The  love  that  lived  through  all  the  stormy  past, 

And  meekly  with  my  harsher  nature  bore, 
And  deeper  grew,  and  tenderer  to  the  last, 

Shall  it  expire  with  life,  and  be  no  more  ? 

A  happier  lot  than  mine,  and  larger  light, 

Await  thee  there,  for  thou  hast  bowed  thy  will 

In  cheerful  homage  to  the  rule  of  right, 
And  lovest  all,  and  renderest  good  for  ill. 

For  me,  the  sordid  cares  in  which  I  dwell 

Shrink  and  consume  my  heart,  as  heat  the  scroll ; 

And  wrath  has  left  its  scar — that  fire  of  hell 
Has  left  its  frightful  scar  upon  my  soul. 

Yet,  though  thou  wear'st  the  glory  of  the  sky, 
Wilt  thou  not  keep  the  same  beloved  name, 

The  same  fair  thoughtful  brow,  and  gentle  eye, 
Lovelier  in  heaven's  sweet  climate,  yet  the  same  ? 


210  LATER  POEMS. 

Shalt  thou  not  teach  me,  in  that  calmer  home, 
The  wisdom  that  I  learned  so  ill  in  this— 

The  wisdom  which  is  love — till  I  become 
Thy  fit  companion  in  that  land  of  bliss  ? 


THE  DEATH   OF   SCHILLER. 

'TiS  said,  when  Schiller's  death  drew  nigh, 
The  wish  possessed  his  mighty  mind, 

To  wander  forth  wherever  lie 

The  homes  and  haunts  of  humankind. 

Then  strayed  the  poet,  in  his  dreams, 
By  Rome  and  Egypt's  ancient  graves  ; 

Went  up  the  New  World's  forest-streams, 
Stood  in  the  Hindoo's  temple-caves ; 

Walked  with  the  Pawnee,  fierce  and  stark, 
The  sallow  Tartar,  midst  his  herds, 

The  peering  Chinese,  and  the  dark 
False  Malay,  uttering  gentle  words. 

How  could  he  rest  ?  even  then  he  trod 
The  threshold  of  the  world  unknown ; 

Already,  from  the  seat  of  God, 
A  ray  upon  his  garments  shone ; — 

Shone  and  awoke  the  strong  desire 
For  love  and  knowledge  reached  not  here, 

Till,  freed  by  death,  his  soul  of  fire 
Sprang  to  a  fairer,  ampler  sphere. 


, 


Fountain,  that  springest  on  this  grassy  slope. 

THE  FOUNTAIN,  p.  211. 


THE  FOUNTAIN.  2\l 


THE  FOUNTAIN. 

FOUNTAIN,  that  springest  on  this  grassy  slope, 
Thy  quick  cool  murmur  mingles  pleasantly, 
With  the  cool  sound  of  breezes  in  the  beech, 
Above  me  in  the  noontide.     Thou  dost  wear 
No  stain  of  thy  dark  birthplace ;  gushing  up 
From  the  red  mould  and  slimy  roots  of  earth. 
Thou  flashest  in  the  sun.     The  mountain-air, 
In  winter,  is  not  clearer,  nor  the  dew 
That  shines  on  mountain-blossom.     Thus  doth  God 
Bring,  from  the  dark  and  foul,  the  pure  and  bright. 

This  tangled  thicket  on  the  bank  above 
Thy  basin,  how  thy  waters  keep  it  green  ! 
For  thou  dost  feed  the  roots  of  the  wild- vine 
That  trails  all  over  it,  and  to  the  twigs 
Ties  fast  her  clusters.     There  the  spice-bush  lifts 
Her  leafy  lances ;  the  viburnum  there, 
Paler  of  foliage,  to  the  sun  holds  up 
Her  circlet  of  green  berries.     In  and  out 
The  chipping-sparrow,  in  her  coat  of  brown, 
Steals  silently  lest  I  should  mark  her  nest. 

Not  such  thou  wert  of  yore,  ere  yet  the  axe 
Had  smitten  the  old  woods.     Then  hoary  trunks 
Of  oak,  and  plane,  and  hickory,  o'er  thee  held 
A  mighty  canopy.     When  April  winds 
Grew  soft,  the  maple  burst  into  a  flush 
Of  scarlet  flowers.    The  tulip-tree,  high  up, 
Opened,  in  airs  of  June,  her  multitude 
Of  golden  chalices  to  humming-birds 
And  silken-winged  insects  of  the  sky. 


212  LATER  POEMS. 

Frail  wood-plants  clustered  round  thy  edge  in  spring ; 
The  liver-leaf  put  forth  her  sister  blooms 
Of  faintest  blue.     Here  the  quick-footed  wolf, 
Passing  to  lap  thy  waters,  crushed  the  flower 
Of  sanguinaria,  from  whose  brittle  stem 
The  red  drops  fell  like  blood.     The  deer,  too,  left 
Her  delicate  footprint  in  the  soft  moist  mould, 
And  on  the  fallen  leaves.     The  slow-paced  bear, 
In  such  a  sultry  summer  noon  as  this, 
Stopped  at  thy  stream,  and  drank,  and  leaped  across. 

But  thou  hast  histories  that  stir  the  heart 
With  deeper  feeling ;  while  I  look  on  thee 
They  rise  before  me.     I  behold  the  scene 
Hoary  again  with  forests ;  I  behold 
The  Indian  warrior,  whom  a  hand  unseen 
Has  smitten  with  his  death-wound  in  the  woods, 
Creep  slowly  to  thy  well-known  rivulet, 
And  slake  his  death-thirst.     Hark,  that  quick  fierce  cry 
That  rends  the  utter  silence !  'tis  the  whoop 
Of  battle,  and  a  throng  of  savage  men 
"With  naked  arms  and  faces  stained  like  blood, 
Fill  the  green  wilderness  ;  the  long  bare  arms 
Are  heaved  aloft,  bows  twang  and  arrows  stream ; 
Each  makes  a  tree  his  shield,  and  every  tree 
Sends  forth  its  arrow.     Fierce  the  fight  and  short, 
As  is  the  whirlwind.     Soon  the  conquerors 
And  conquered  vanish,  and  the  dead  remain 
Mangled  by  tomahawks.     The  mighty  woods 
Are  still  again,  the  frighted  bird  comes  back 
And  plumes  her  wings  ;  but  thy  sweet  waters  run 
Crimson  with  blood.     Then,  as  the  sun  goes  down, 
Amid  the  deepening  twilight  I  descry 
Figures  of  men  that  crouch  and  creep  unheard, 


Ye  scoop  the  ocean  to  its  briny  springs, 
And  take  the  mountain-billow  on  your  wings. 

THE  WINDS,  p.  215. 


^s. 

at  feed  thy  constant 
.  earth,  and  flow  no  more 
•er,  that  the  water-plants  along 
Thy  channel  perish,  and  the  bird  in  vain 
•it  tn  drin!. 


Gush  midway  frc>;> 


WINDS. 


O'er  maid 


. 


he  cataract 
fv;ry  and  its  might ; 

icrs  as  ye  s> 
:     :e  prone  b-. 


•he  ncean  to  its  briny  springs, 

jvbilknv  on  your  wing*. 

THE  WiM,b;  p.  2x5. 


THE    WINDS. 

Or  shall  the  veins  that  feed  thy  constant  stream 
Be  choked  in  middle  earth,  and  flow  no  more 
For  ever,  that  the  water-plants  along 
Thy  channel  perish,  and  the  bird  in  vain 
Alight  to  drink  ?     Haply  shall  these  green  hills 
Sink,  with  the  lapse  of  years,  into  the  gulf 
Of  ocean-waters,  and  thy  source  be  lost 
Amidst  the  bitter  brine  ?     Or  shall  they  rise, 
Upheaved  in  broken  cliffs  and  airy  peaks, 
Haunts  of  the  eagle  and  the  snake,  and  thou 
Gush  midway  from  the  bare  and  barren  steep  ? 


THE  WINDS. 


YE  winds,  ye  unseen  currents  of  the  air, 

Softly  ye  played  a  few  brief  hours  ago  ; 
Ye  bore  the  murmuring  bee ;  ye  tossed  the  air 

O'er  maiden  cheeks,  that  took  a  fresher  glow  ; 
Ye  rolled  the  round  white  cloud  through  depths  of  blue ; 
Ye  shook  from  shaded  flowers  the  lingering  dew ; 
Before  you  the  catalpa's  blossoms  flew, 

Light  blossoms,  dropping  on  the  grass  like  snow. 

II. 

What  change  is  this  !     Ye  take  the  cataract's  sound  ; 

Ye  take  the  whirlpool's  fury  and  its  might ; 
The  mountain  shudders  as  ye  sweep  the  ground ; 

The  valley  woods  lie  prone  beneath  your  flight. 


215 


2i6  LATER  POEMS. 

The  clouds  before  you  shoot  like  eagles  past ; 
The  homes  of  men  are  rocking  in  your  blast ; 
Ye  lift  the  roofs  like  autumn  leaves,  and  cast, 
Skyward,  the  whirling  fragments  out  of  sight. 

in. 
The  weary  fowls  of  heaven  make  wing  in  vain, 

To  escape  your  wrath ;  ye  seize  and  dash  them  dead  j 
Against  the  earth  ye  drive  the  roaring  rain ; 

The  harvest-field  becomes  a  river's  bed ; 
And  torrents  tumble  from  the  hills  around, 
Plains  turn  to  lakes,  and  villages  are  drowned, 
And  wailing  voices,  midst  the  tempest's  sound, 

Rise,  as  the  rushing  waters  swell  and  spread. 

IV. 

Ye  dart  upon  the  deep,  and  straight  is  heard 
A  wilder  roar,  and  men  grow  pale,  and  pray  ; 

Ye  fling  its  floods  around  you,  as  a  bird 

Flings  o'er  his  shivering  plumes  the  fountain's  spray. 

See  !  to  the  breaking  mast  the  sailor  clings  ; 

Ye  scoop  the  ocean  to  its  briny  springs, 

And  take  the  mountain-billow  on  your  wings, 
And  pile  the  wreck  of  navies  round  the  bay. 

v. 
Why  rage  ye  thus  ? — no  strife  for  liberty 

Has  made  you  mad;  no  tyrant,  strong  through  fear, 
Has  chained  your  pinions  till  ye  wrenched  them  free, 

And  rushed  into  the  unmeasured  atmosphere ; 
For  ye  were  born  in  freedom  where  ye  blow  ; 
Free  o'er  the  mighty  deep  to  come  and  go ; 
Earth's  solemn  woods  were  yours,  her  wastes  of  snow, 

Her  isles  where  summer  blossoms  all  the  vear. 


a  white-haired  man, 

Pithy  of  speech,  and  merry  when  he  would. 

THE  OLD  MAN'S  COUNSEL,  p. 


AN  EVENING  REVERY.  221 


IN   MEMORY   OF  WILLIAM   LEGGETT. 

THE  earth  may  ring,  from  shore  to  shore, 

With  echoes  of  a  glorious  name, 
But  he,  whose  loss  our  tears  deplore, 
.     Has  left  behind  him  more  than  fame. 

For  when  the  death-frost  came  to  lie 
On  Leggett's  warm  and  mighty  heart, 

And  quench  his  bold  and  friendly  eye, 
His  spirit  did  not  all  depart. 

The  words  of  fire  that  from  his  pen 
Were  flung  upon  the  fervid  page, 

Still  move,  still  shake  the  hearts  of  men, 
Amid  a  cold  and  coward  age. 

His  love  of  truth,  .too  warm,  too  strong 
For  Hope  or  Fear  to  chain  or  chill, 

His  hate  of  tyranny  and  wrong, 

Burn  in  the  breasts  he  kindled  still. 


AN  EVENING  REVERY. 

THE  summer  day  is  closed — the  sun  is  set : 
Well  they  have  done  their  office,  those  bright  hours, 
The  latest  of  whose  train  goes  softly  out 
In  the  red  west.     The  green  blade  of  the  ground 
Has  risen,  and  herds  have  cropped  it ;  *the  young  twig 
Has  spread  its  plaited  tissues  to  the  sun; 
Flowers  of  the  garden  and  the  waste  have  blown 


222  LATER  POEMS. 

And  withered ;  seeds  have  fallen  upon  the  soil, 

From  bursting  cells,  and  in  their  graves  await 

Their  resurrection.     Insects  from  the  pools 

Have  filled  the  air  awhile  with  humming  wings, 

That  now  are  still  for  ever ;  painted  moths 

Have  wandered  the  blue  sky,  and  died  again  ; 

The  mother-bird  hath  broken  for  her  brood 

Their  prison  shell,  or  shoved  them  from  the  nest, 

Plumed  for  their  earliest  flight.     In  bright  alcoves, 

In  woodland  cottages  with  barky  walls, 

In  noisome  cells  of  the  tumultuous  town, 

Mothers  have  clasped  with  joy  the  new-born  babe. 

Graves  by  the  lonely  forest,  by  the  shore 

Of  rivers  and  of  ocean,  by  the  ways 

Of  the  thronged  city,  have  been  hollowed  out 

And  filled,  and  closed.     This  day  hath  parted  friends 

That  ne'er  before  were  parted ;  it  hath  knit 

New  friendships  ;  it  hath  seen  the  maiden  plight 

Her  faith,  and  trust  her  peace  to  him  who  long 

Had  wooed ;  and  it  hath  heard,  from  lips  which  late 

Were  eloquent  of  love,  the  first  harsh  word, 

That  told  the  wedded  one  her  peace  was  flown. 

Farewell  to  the  sweet  sunshine !     One  glad  day 

Is  added  now  to  Childhood's  merry  days, 

And  one  calm  day  to  those  of  quiet  Age. 

Still  the  fleet  hours  run  on  ;  and  as  I  lean, 

Amid  the  thickening  darkness,  lamps  are  lit, 

By  those  who  watch  the  dead,  and  those  who  twine 

Flowers  for  the  bride.     The  mother  from  the  eyes 

Of  her  sick  infant  shades  the  painful  light, 

And  sadly  listens  to  his  quick-drawn  breath. 

O  thou  great  Movement  of  the  Universe, 
Or  Change,  or  Flight  of  Time— for  ye  are  one ! 


AN  EVENING  RE  VERY.  223 

That  bearest,  silently,  this  visible  scene 
Into  night's  shadow  and  the  streaming  rays 
Of  starlight,  whither  art  thou  bearing  me  ? 
I  feel  the  mighty  current  sweep  me  on, 
Yet  know  not  whither.     Man  foretells  afar 
The  courses  of  the  stars ;  the  very  hour 
He  knows  when  they  shall  darken  or  grow  bright ; 
Yet  doth  the  eclipse  of  Sorrow  and  of  Death 
Come  unforewarned.     Who  next,  of  those  I  love, 
Shall  pass  from  life,  or,  sadder  yet,  shall  fall 
From  virtue  ?     Strife  with  foes,  or  bitterer  strife 
With  friends,  or  shame  and  general  scorn  of  men — 
Which  who  can  bear  ? — or  the  fierce  rack  of  pain — 
Lie  they  within  my  path  ?    Or  shall  the  years 
Push  me,  with  soft  and  inoffensive  pace, 
Into  the  stilly  twilight  of  my  age  ? 
Or  do  the  portals  of  another  life 
Even  now,  while  I  am  glorying  in  my  strength, 
Impend  around  me  ?     Oh !  beyond  that  bourne, 
In  the  vast  cycle  of  being  which  begins 
At  that  dread  threshold,  with  what  fairer  forms 
Shall  the  great  law  of  change  and  progress  clothe 
Its  workings  ?    Gently — so  have  good  men  taught— 
Gently,  and  without  grief,  the  old  shall  glide 
Into  the  new;  the'  eternal  flow  of  things, 
Like  a  bright  river  of  the  fields  of  heaven, 
Shall  journey  onward  in  perpetual  peace. 


224  LATER  POEMS. 


THE   PAINTED   CUP. 

THE  fresh  savannas  of  the  Sangamon 
Here  rise  in  gentle  swells,  and  the  long  grass 
Is  mixed  with  rustling  hazels.     Scarlet  tufts 
Are  glowing  in  the  green,  like  flakes  of  fire  ; 
The  wanderers  of  the  prairie  know  them  well, 
And  call  that  brilliant  flower  the  Painted  Cup. 

Now,  if  thou  art  a  poet,  tell  me  not 
That  these  bright  chalices  were  tinted  thus 
To  hold  the  dew  for  fairies,  when  they  meet 
On  moonlight  evenings  in  the  hazel-bowers, 
And  dance  till  they  are  thirsty.     Call  not  up, 
Amid  this  fresh  and  virgin  solitude, 
The  faded  fancies  of  an  elder  world ; 
But  leave  these  scarlet  cups  to  spotted  moths 
Of  June,  and  glistening  flies,  and  humming-birds, 
To  drink  from,  when  on  all  these  boundless  lawns 
The  morning  sun  looks  hot.     Or  let  the  wind 
O'erturn  in  sport  their  ruddy  brims,  and  pour 
A  sudden  shower  upon  the  strawberry-plant, 
To  swell  the  reddening  fruit  that  even  now 
Breathes  a  slight  fragrance  from  the  sunny  slope. 

But  thou  art  of  a  gayer  fancy.     Well — 
Let  then  the  gentle  Manitou  of  flowers, 
Lingering  amid  the  bloomy  waste  he  loves, 
Though  all  his  swarthy  worshippers  are  gone — 
Slender  and  small,  his  rounded  cheek  all  brown 
And  ruddy  with  the  sunshine ;  let  him  come 
On  summer  mornings,  when  the  blossoms  wake, 
And  part  with  little  hands  the  spiky  grass, 
And  touching,  with  his  cherry  lips,  the  edge 
Of  these  bright  beakers,  drain  the  gathered  dew. 


A   DREAM. 


A   DREAM. 

I  HAD  a  dream — a  strange,  wild  dream — 

Said  a  dear  voice  at  early  light ; 
And  even  yet  its  shadows  seem 

To  linger  in  my  waking  sight. 

Earth,  green  with  spring,  and  fresh  with  dew, 
And  bright  with  morn,  before  me  stood  ; 

And  airs  just  wakened  softly  blew 
On  the  young  blossoms  of  the  wood. 

Birds  sang  within  the  sprouting  shade, 
Bees  hummed  amid  the  whispering  grass, 

And  children  prattled  as  they  played 
Beside  the  rivulet's  dimpling  glass. 

Fast  climbed  the  sun :  the  flowers  were  flown, 
There  played  no  children  in  the  glen  ; 

For  some  were  gone,  and  some  were  grown 
To  blooming  dames  and  bearded  men. 

'Twas  noon,  'twas  summer  :  I  beheld 
Woods  darkening  in  the  flush  of  day, 

And  that  bright  rivulet  spread  and  swelled, 
A  mighty  stream,  with  creek  and  bay. 

And  here  was  love,  and  there  was  strife, 
And  mirthful  shouts,  and  wrathful  cries, 

And  strong  men,  struggling  as  for  life, 
With  knotted  limbs  and  angry  eyes. 

Now  stooped  the  sun — the  shades  grew  thin  ; 

The  rustling  paths  were  piled  with  leaves, 
And  sunburnt  groups  were  gathering  in, 

From  the  shorn  field,  its  fruits  and  sheaves. 


225 


226  LATER  POEMS. 

The  river  heaved  with  sullen  sounds  ; 

The  chilly  wind  was  sad  with  moans  ; 
Black  hearses  passed,  and  burial-grounds 

Grew  thick  with  monumental  stones. 

Still  wraned  the  day ;  the  wind  that  chased 
The  jagged  clouds  blew  chiller  yet ; 

The  woods  were  stripped,  the  fields  were  waste ; 
The  wintry  sun  was  near  his  set. 

And  of  the  young,  and  strong,  and  fair, 
A  lonely  remnant,  gray  and  weak, 

Lingered,  and  shivered  to  the  air 
Of  that  bleak  shore  and  water  bleak. 

Ah  !  age  is  drear,  and  death  is  cold ! 

I  turned  to  thee,  for  thou  wert  near, 
And  saw  thee  withered,  bowed,  and  old, 

And  woke  all  faint  with  sudden  fear. 

'Twas  thus  I  heard  the  dreamer  say, 
And  bade  her  clear  her  clouded  brow ; 

"  For  thou  and  I,  since  childhood's  day, 
Have  walked  in  such  a  dream  till  now. 

"Watch  we  in  calmness,  as  they  rise, 
The  changes  of  that  rapid  dream, 

And  note  its  lessons,  till  our  eyes 
Shall  open  in  the  morning  beam." 


THE  ANTIQUITY  OF  FREEDOM.  227 


THE  ANTIQUITY   OF   FREEDOM. 

HERE  are  old  trees,  tall  oaks,  and  gnarled  pines, 
That  stream  with  gray-green  mosses ;  here  the  ground 
Was  never  trenched  by  spade,  and  flowers  spring  up 
Unsown,  and  die  ungathered.     It  is  sweet 
To  linger  here,  among  the  flitting  birds 
And  leaping  squirrels,  wandering  brooks,  and  winds 
That  shake  the  leaves,  and  scatter,  as  they  pass, 
A  fragrance  from  the  cedars,  thickly  set 
With  pale-blue  berries.     In  these  peaceful  shades — 
Peaceful,  unpruned,  immeasurably  old — 
My  thoughts  go  up  the  long  dim  path  of  years, 
Back  to  the  earliest  days  of  liberty. 

O  FREEDOM  !  thou  art  not,  as  poets  dream, 
A  fair  young  girl,  with  light  and  delicate  limbs, 
And  wavy  tresses  gushing  from  the  cap 
With  which  the  Roman  master  crowned  his  slave 
When  he  took  off  the  gyves.     A  bearded  man, 
Armed  to  the  teeth,  art  thou ;  one  mailed  hand 
Grasps  the  broad  shield,  and  one  the  sword ;  thy  brow, 
Glorious  in  beauty  though  it  be,  is  scarred 
With  tokens  of  old  wars  ;  thy  massive  limbs 
Are  strong  with  struggling.     Power  at  thee  has  launched 
His  bolts,  and  with  his  lightnings  smitten  thee ; 
They  could  not  quench  the  life  thou  hast  from  heaven ; 
Merciless  Power  has  dug  thy  dungeon  deep, 
And  his  swart  armorers,  by  a  thousand  fires, 
Have  forged  thy  chain  j  yet,  while  he  deems  thee  bound, 
The  links  are  shivered,  and  the  prison-walls 
Fall  outward ;  terribly  thou  springest  forth, 
As  springs  the  flame  above  a  burning  pile, 


228  LATER  POEMS. 

And  shoutest  to  the  nations,  who  return 
Thy  shoutings,  while  the  pale  oppressor  flies. 

Thy  birthright  was  not  given  by  human  hands  : 
Thou  wert  twin-born  with  man.     In  pleasant  fields, 
While  yet  our  race  was  few,  thou  sat'st  with  him, 
To  tend  the  quiet  flock  and  watch  the  stars, 
And  teach  the  reed  to  utter  simple  airs. 
Thou  by  his  side,  amid  the  tangled  wood, 
Didst  war  upon  the  panther  and  the  wolf, 
His  only  foes ;  and  thou  with  him  didst  draw 
The  earliest  furrow  on  the  mountain-side, 
Soft  with  the  deluge.     Tyranny  himself, 
Thy  enemy,  although  of  reverend  look, 
Hoary  with  many  years,  and  far  obeyed, 
Is  later  born  than  thou  ;  and  as  he  meets 
The  grave  defiance  of  thine  elder  eye, 
The  usurper  trembles  in  his  fastnesses. 

Thou  shalt  wax  stronger  with  the  lapse  of  years, 
But  he  shall  fade  into  a  feebler  age — 
Feebler,  yet  subtler.     He  shall  weave  his  snares, 
And  spring  them  on  thy  careless  steps,  and  clap 
His  withered  hands,  and  from  their  ambush  call 
His  hordes  to  fall  upon  thee.     He  shall  send 
Quaint  maskers,  wearing  fair  and  gallant  forms 
To  catch  thy  gaze,  and  uttering  graceful  words 
To  charm  thy  ear ;  while  his  sly  imps,  by  stealth, 
Twine  round  thee  threads  of  steel,  light  thread  on  thread, 
That  grow  to  fetters ;  or  bind  down  thy  arms 
With  chains  concealed  in  chaplets.     Oh !  not  yet 
Mayst  thou  unbrace  thy  corslet,  nor  lay  by 
Thy  sword ;  nor  yet,  O  Freedom !  close  thy  lids 
In  slumber  j  for  thine  enemy  never  sleeps, 


THE  MAIDEN'S  SORROW.  22Q 

And  thou  must  watch  and  combat  till  the  day 

Of  the  new  earth  and  heaven.     But  wouldst  thou  rest 

Awhile  from  tumult  and  the  frauds  of  men, 

These  old  and  friendly  solitudes  invite 

Thy  visit.     They,  while  yet  the  forest-trees 

Were  young  upon  the  unviolated  earth, 

And  yet  the  moss-stains  on  the  rock  were  new,  * 

Beheld  thy  glorious  childhood,  and  rejoiced. 


THE   MAIDEN'S   SORROW. 


long  years  has  the  desert  rain 
Dropped  on  the  clods  that  hide  thy  face  ; 
Seven  long  years  of  sorrow  and  pain 
I  have  thought  of  thy  burial-place  : 

Thought  of  thy  fate  in  the  distant  West, 
Dying  with  none  that  loved  thee  near, 

They  who  flung  the  earth  on  thy  breast 
Turned  from  the  spot  without  a  tear. 

There,  I  think,  on  that  lonely  grave, 
Violets  spring  in  the  soft  May  shower  ; 

There,  in  the  summer  breezes,  wave 
Crimson  phlox  and  moccasin-flower. 

There  the  turtles  alight,  and  there 
Feeds  with  her  fawn  the  timid  doe  ; 

There,  when  the  winter  woods  are  bare, 
Walks  the  wolf  on  the  crackling  snow. 


230  LATER  POEMS. 

Soon  wilt  thou  wipe  my  tears  away ; 

All  my  task  upon  earth  is  done ; 
My  poor  father,  old  and  gray, 

Slumbers  beneath  the  churchyard  stone. 

In  the  dreams  of  my  lonely  bed, 
Ever  thy  form  before  me  seems, 

All  night  long  I  talk  with  the  dead, 
All  day  long  I  think  of  my  dreams. 

This  deep  wound  that  bleeds  and  aches, 
This  long  pain,  a  sleepless  pain — 

When  the  Father  my  spirit  takes, 
I  shall  feel  it  no  more  a^ain. 


THE  RETURN   OF   YOUTH. 

MY  friend,  thou  sorrowest  for  thy  golden  prime, 

For  thy  fair  youthful  years  too  swift  of  flight ; 
Thou  musest,  with  wet  eyes,  upon  the  time 

Of  cheerful  hopes  that  filled  the  world  with  light — 
Years  when  thy  heart  was  bold,  thy  hand  was  strong, ' 

And  quick  the  thought  that  moved  thy  tongue  to  speak, 
And  willing  faith  was  thine,  and  scorn  of  wrong 

Summoned  the  sudden  crimson  to  thy  cheek. 

Thou  lookest  forward  on  the  coming  days, 

Shuddering  to  feel  their  shadow  o'er  thee  creep ; 

A  path,  thick-set  with  changes  and  decays, 

Slopes  downward  to  the  place  of  common  sleep ; 


THE  RETURN  OF   YOUTH.  231 

And  they  who  walked  with  thee  in  life's  first  stage, 
Leave  one  by  one  thy  side,  and,  waiting  near, 

Thou  seest  the  sad  companions  of  thy  age — 
Dull  love  of  rest,  and  weariness  and  fear. 

Yet  grieve  thou  not,  nor  think  thy  youth  is  gone, 

Nor  deem  that  glorious  season  e'er  could  die. 
Thy  pleasant  youth,  a  little  while  withdrawn, 

Waits  on  the  horizon  of  a  brighter  sky ; 
Waits,  like  the  morn,  that  folds  her  wing  and  hides 

Till  the  slow  stars  bring  back  her  dawning  hour ; 
Waits,  like  the  vanished  spring,  that  slumbering  bides 

Her  own  sweet  time  to  waken  bud  and  flower. 

There  shall  he  welcome  thee,  when  thou  shalt  stand 

On  his  bright  morning  hills,  with  smiles  more  sweet 
Than  when  at  first  he  took  thee  by  the  hand, 

Through  the  fair  earth  to  lead  thy  tender  feet. 
He  shall  bring  back,  but  brighter,  broader  still, 

Life's  early  glory  to  thine  eyes  again, 
Shall  clothe  thy  spirit  with  new  strength,  and  fill 

Thy  leaping  heart  with  warmer  love  than  then. 

Hast  thou  not  glimpses,  in  the  twilight  here, 

Of  mountains  where  immortal  morn  prevails  ? 
Comes  there  not,  through  the  silence,  to  thine  ear 

A  gentle  rustling  of  the  morning  gales  ; 
A  murmur,  wafted  from  that  glorious  shore, 

Of  streams  that  water  banks  forever  fair, 
And  voices  of  the  loved  ones  gone  before, 

More  musical  in  that  celestial  air  ? 


23 2  LATER  POEMS. 


A   HYMN   OF  THE   SEA. 

THE  sea  is  mighty,  but  a  mightier  sways 
His  restless  billows.    Thou,  whose  hands  have  scooped 
His  boundless  gulfs  and  built  his  shore,  thy  breath, . 
That  moved  in  the  beginning  o'er  his  face, 
Moves  o'er  it  evermore.     The  obedient  waves 
To  its  strong  motion  roll,  and  rise  and  fall. 
Still  from  that  realm  of  rain  thy  cloud  goes  up, 
As  at  the  first,  to  water  the  great  earth, 
And  keep  her  valleys  green.     A  hundred  realms 
Watch  its  broad  shadow  warping  on  the  wind, 
And  in  the  dropping  shower,  with  gladness  hear 
Thy  promise  of  the  harvest.     I  look  forth 
Over  the  boundless  blue,  where  joyously 
The  bright  crests  of  innumerable  waves 
Glance  to  the  sun  at  once,  as  when  the  hands 
Of  a  great  multitude  are  upward  flung 
In  acclamation.     I  behold  the  ships 
Gliding  from  cape  to  cape,  from  isle  to  isle, 
Or  stemming  toward  far  lands,  or  hastening  home 
From  the  Old  World.     It  is  thy  friendly  breeze 
That  bears  them,  with  the  riches  of  the  land, 
And  treasure  of  dear  lives,  till,  in  the  port, 
The  shouting  seaman  climbs  and  furls  the  sail. 

But  who  shall  bide  thy  tempest,  who  shall  face 
The  blast  that  wakes  the  fury  of  the  sea  ? 
O  God!  thy  justice  makes  the  world  turn  pale, 
When  on  the  armed  fleet,  that  royally 
Bears  down  the  surges,  carrying  war,  to  smite 
Some  city,  or  invade  some  thoughtless  realm, 
Descends  the  fierce  tornado.     The  vast  hulks 


I  beh 
.i  from  cape  u  is!e. 


•  ng  motion  roil, 
That  realm  of  rai 


• 


Id.     It  is  tlr 

. 


_ 


I  behold  the  ships 
Gliding  from  cape  to  cape,  from  isle  to  isle. 

A  HYMN  OF  THE  SEA,  p.  232. 


NOON. 

The  glittering  dragon-fly,  and  deep  within 
Run  the  brown  water-beetles  to  and  fro. 

A  silence,  the  brief  sabbath  of  an  hour, 
Reigns  o'er  the  fields ;  the  laborer  sits  within 
His  dwelling ;  he  has  left  his  steers  awhile, 
Unyoked,  to  bite  the  herbage,  and  his  dog 
Sleeps  stretched  beside  the  door-stone  in  the  shade. 
Now  the  gray  marmot,  with  uplifted  paws, 
No  more  sits  listening  by  his  den,  but  steals 
Abroad,  in  safety,  to  the  clover-field, 
And  crops  its  juicy  blossoms.     All  the  while 
A  ceaseless  murmur  from  the  populous  town 
Swells  o'er  these  solitudes  :  a  mingled  sound 
Of  jarring  wheels,  and  iron  hoofs  that  clash 
Upon  the  stony  ways,  and  hammer-clang, 
And  creak  of  engines  lifting  ponderous  bulks, 
And  calls  and  cries,  and  tread  of  eager  feet, 
Innumerable,  hurrying  to  and  fro. 
Noon,  in  that  mighty  mart  of  nations,  brings 
No  pause  to  toil  and  care.     With  early  day 
Began  the  tumult,  and  shall  only  cease 
When  midnight,  hushing  one  by  one  the  sounds 
Of  bustle,  gathers  the  tired  brood  to  rest. 

Thus,  in  this  feverish  time,  when  love  of  gain 
And  luxury  possess  the  hearts  of  men, 
Thus  is  it  with  the  noon  of  human  life. 
We,  in  our  fervid  manhood,  in  our  strength 
Of  reason,  we,  with  hurry,  noise,  and  care, 
Plan,  toil,  and  strive,  and  pause  not  to  refresh 
Our  spirits  with  the  calm  and  beautiful 
Of  God's  harmonious  universe,  that  won 
Our  youthful  wonder ;  pause  not  to  inquire 


235 


236  LATER  POEMS. 

Why  we  are  here ;  and  what  the  reverence 
Man  owes  to  man,  and  what  the  mystery 
That  links  us  to  the  greater  world,  beside 
Whose  borders  we  but  hover  for  a  space. 


THE   CROWDED   STREET. 

LET  me  move  slowly  through  the  street, 
Filled  with  an  ever-shifting  train, 

Amid  the  sound  of  steps  that  beat 

The  murmuring  walks  like  autumn  rain. 

How  fast  the  flitting  figures  come  ! 

The  mild,  the  fierce,  the  stony  face ; 
Some  bright  with  thoughtless  smiles,  and  some 

Where  secret  tears  have  left  their  trace. 

They  pass — to  toil,  to  strife,  to  rest ; 

To  halls  in  which  the  feast  is  spread ; 
To  chambers  where  the  funeral  guest 

In  silence  sits  beside  the  dead. 

And  some  to  happy  homes  repair, 

Where  children,  pressing  cheek  to  cheek, 

With  mute  caresses  shall  declare 
The  tenderness  they  cannot  speak. 

And  some,  who  walk  in  calmness  here, 
Shall  shudder  as  they  reach  the  door 

Where  one  who  made  their  dwelling  dear, 
Its  flower,  its  light,  is  seen  no  more. 


THE   CROWDED  STREET.  237 

Youth,  with  pale  cheek  and  slender  frame, 

And  dreams  of  greatness  in  thine  eye  ! 
Go'st  thou  to  build  an  early  name, 

Or  early  in  the  task  to  die  ? 

Keen  son  of  trade,  with  eager  brow  ! 

Who  is  now  fluttering  in  thy  snare  ? 
Thy  golden  fortunes,  tower  they  now, 

Or  melt  the  glittering  spires  in  air  ? 

Who  of  this  crowd  to-night  shall  tread 

The  dance  till  daylight  gleam  again  ? 
Who  sorrow  o'er  the  untimely  dead? 

Who  writhe  in  throes  of  mortal  pain  ? 

Some,  famine-struck,  shall  think  how  long 
The  cold  dark  hours,  how  slow  the  light ; 

And  some,  who  flaunt  amid  the  throng, 
Shall  hide  in  dens  of  shame  to-night. 

Each,  where  his  tasks  or  pleasures  call, 

They  pass,  and  heed  each  other  not. 
There  is  who  heeds,  who  holds  them  all, 

In  His  large  love  and  boundless  thought. 

These  struggling  tides  of  life  that  seem 

In  wayward,  aimless  course  to  tend, 
Are  eddies  of  the  mighty  stream 

That  rolls  to  its  appointed  end. 


LATER  POEMS. 


THE  WHITE-FOOTED   DEER. 

IT  was  a  hundred  years  ago, 
When,  by  the  woodland  ways, 

The  traveller  saw  the  wild-deer  drink, 
Or  crop  the  birchen  sprays. 

Beneath  a  hill,  whose  roclcy  side 

O'erbrowed  a  grassy  mead, 
And  fenced  a  cottage  from  the  wind, 

A  deer  was  wont  to  feed. 

She  only  came  when  on  the  cliffs 

The  evening  moonlight  lay, 
And  no  man  knew  the  secret  haunts 

In  which  she  walked  by  day. 

White  were  her  feet,  her  forehead  showed 

A  spot  of  silvery  white, 
That  seemed  to  glimmer  like  a  star 

In  autumn's  hazy  night. 

And  here,  when  sang  the  whippoorwill, 
She  cropped  the  sprouting  leaves, 

And  here  her  rustling  steps  were  heard 
On  still  October  eves. 

But  when  the  broad  midsummer  moon 

Rose  o'er  that  grassy  lawn, 
Beside  the  silver-footed  deer 

There  grazed  a  spotted  fawn. 


White  were  her  feet,  her  forehead  showed 
A  spot  of  silvery  white. 

THE  WHITE-FOOTED  DEER,  p.  238. 


THE    WANING  MOON.  241 

Even  while  your  glow  is  on  the  cheek, 

And  scarce  the  high  pursuit  begun, 
The  heart  grows  faint,  the  hand  grows  weak, 

The  task  of  life  is  left  undone. 


See  where,  upon  the  horizon's  brim, 
Lies  the  still  cloud  in  gloomy  bars ; 

The  v/aning  moon,  all  pale  and  dim, 
Goes  up  amid  the  eternal  stars. 

Late,  in  a  flood  of  tender  light, 
She  floated  through  the  ethereal  blue, 

A  softer  sun,  that  shone  all  night 
Upon  the  gathering  beads  of  dew. 

And  still  thou  wanest,  pallid  moon ! 

The  encroaching  shadow  grows  apace ; 
Heaven's  everlasting  watchers  soon 

Shall  see  thee  blotted  from  thy  place. 

Oh,  Night's  dethroned  and  crownless  queen  ! 

Well  may  thy  sad,  expiring  ray 
Be  shed  on  those  whose  eyes  have  seen 

Hope's  glorious  visions  fade  away. 

Shine  thou  for  forms  that  once  were  bright, 

For  sages  in  the  mind's  eclipse, 
For  those  whose  words  were  spells  of  might 

But  falter  now  on  stammering  lips  ! 

In  thy  decaying  beam  there  lies 

Full  many  a  grave  on  hill  and  plain, 

Of  those  who  closed  their  dying  eyes 
In  grief  that  they  had  lived  in  vain. 
21 


242 


LATER  POEMS. 

Another  night,  and  thoti  among 

The  spheres  of  heaven  shalt  cease  to  shine, 
All  rayless  in  the  glittering  throng 

Whose  lustre  late  was  quenched  in  thine. 

Yet  soon  a  new  and  tender  light 

From  out  thy  darkened  orb  shall  beam, 

And  broaden  till  it  shines  all  night 

On  glistening  dew  and  glimmering  stream. 


THE   STREAM   OF   LIFE. 

OH  silvery  streamlet  of  the  fields, 

That  flowest  full  and  free 
For  thee  the  rains  of  spring  return, 

The  summer  dews  for  thee ; 
And  when  thy  latest  blossoms  die 

In  autumn's  chilly  showers, 
The  winter  fountains  gush  for  thee, 

Till  May  brings  back  the  flowers. 

Oh  Stream  of  Life  !  the  violet  springs 

But  once  beside  thy  bed ; 
But  one  brief  summer,  on  thy  path, 

The  dews  of  heaven  are  shed. 
Thy  parent  fountains  shrink  away, 

And  close  their  crystal  veins, 
And  where  thy  glittering  current  flowed 

The  dust  alone  remains. 


THE    UNKNOWN  WAY.  243 


THE   UNKNOWN   WAY. 

A  BURNING  sky  is  o'er  me, 

The  sands  beneath  me  glow, 
As  omvard,  onward,  wearily, 

In  the  sultry  morn  I  go. 

From  the  dusty  path  there  opens, 

Eastward,  an  unknown  way ; 
Above  its  windings,  pleasantly, 

The  woodland  branches  play. 

A  silvery  brook  comes  stealing 

From  the  shadow  of  its  trees, 
Where  slender  herbs  of  the  forest  stoop 

Before  the  entering  breeze. 

Along  those  pleasant  windings 

I  would  my  journey  lay, 
Where  the  shade  is  cool  and  the  dew  of  night 

Is  not  yet  dried  away. 

Path  of  the  flowery  woodland  ! 

Oh  whither  dost  thou  lead, 
Wandering  by  grassy  orchard-ground  j, 

Or  by  the  open  mead  ? 

Goest  thou  by  nestling  cottage  ? 

Goest  thou  by  stately  hall, 
Where  the  broad  elm  droops,  a  leafy  dome, 

And  woodbines  flaunt  on  the  wall  ? 


244 


LATER  POEMS. 

By  steeps  where  children  gather 
Flowers  of  the  yet  fresh  year  ? 

By  lonely  walks  where  lovers  stray 
Till  the  tender  stars  appear  ? 

Or  haply  dost  thou  linger 
On  barren  plains  and  bare, 

Or  clamber  the  bald  mountain-side 
Into  the  thinner  air  ? — 

Where  they  who  journey  upward 

Walk  in  a  weary  track, 
And  oft  upon  the  shady  vale 

With  longing  eyes  look  back  ? 

I  hear  a  solemn  murmur, 
And,  listening  to  the  sound, 

I  knew  the  voice  of  the  mighty  Sea, 
Beating  his  pebbly  bound. 

Dost  thou,  oh  path  of  the  woodland  ! 

End  where  those  waters  roar, 
Like  human  life,  on  a  trackless  beach, 

With  a  boundless  Sea  before  ? 


OH   MOTHER   OF  A   MIGHTY   RACK.' 

OH  mother  of  a  mighty  race, 
Yet  lovely  in  thy  youthful  grace  ! 
The  elder  dames,  thy  haughty  peers, 
Admire  and  hate  thy  blooming  years. 

With  words  of  shame 
And  taunts  of  scorn  they  join  thy  name. 


OH  MOTHER   OF  A  MIGHTY  RACE."        245 

For  on  thy  cheeks  the  glow  is  spread 
That  tints  thy  morning  hills  with  red ; 
They  step — the  wild-deer's  rustling  feet, 
Within  thy  woods  are  not  more  fleet ; 

Thy  hopeful  eye 
Is  bright  as  thine  own  sunny  sky. 

Ay,  let. them  rail — those  haughty  ones, 
While  safe  thou  dwellest  with  thy  sons. 
They  do  not  know  how  loved  thou  art, 
How  mariy  a  fond  and  fearless  heart 

Would  rise  to  throw 
Its  life  between  thee  and  the  foe. 

They  know  not,  in  their  hate  and  pride, 
What  virtues  with  thy  children  bide ; 
How  true,  how  good,  thy  graceful  maids 
Make  bright,  like  flowers,  the  valley-shades ; 

What  generous  men 
Spring,  like  thine  oaks,  by  hill  and  glen. 

What  cordial  welcomes  greet  the  guest 
By  thy  lone  rivers  of  the  West ; 
How  faith  is  kept,  and  truth  revered, 
And  man  is  loved,  and  God  is  feared, 

In  woodland  homes, 
And  where  the  ocean  border  foams. 

There's  freedom  at  thy  gates  and  rest 
For  Earth's  down-trodden  and  opprest, 
A  shelter  for  the  hunted  head, 
For  the  starved  laborer  toil  and  bread. 

Power,  at  thy  bounds, 
Stops  and  calls  back  his  baffled  hounds. 


246  LATER  POEMS. 

Oh,  fair  young  mother  !  on  thy  brow 
Shall  sit  a  nobler  grace  than  now. 
Deep  in  the  brightness  of  thy  skies 
The  thronging  years  in  glory  rise, 

And,  as  they  fleet, 
Drop  strength  and  riches  at  thy  feet. 

Thine  eye,  with  every  coming  hour, 
Shall  brighten,  and  thy  form  shall  tower ; 
And  when  thy  sisters,  elder  born, 
Would  brand  thy  name  with  words  of  scorn, 

Before  thine  eye, 
Upon  their  lips  the  taunt  shall  die. 


THE   LAND   OF   DREAMS. 

A  MIGHTY  realm  is  the  Land  of  Dreams, 
With  steeps  that  hang  in  the  twilight  sky, 

And  weltering  oceans  and  trailing  streams, 
That  gleam  where  the  dusky  valleys  lie. 

But  over  its  shadowy  border  flow 

Sweet  rays  from  the  world  of  endless  morn, 

And  the  nearer  mountains  catch  the  glow, 
And  flowers  in  the  nearer  fields  are  born. 

The  souls  of  the  happy  dead  repair, 

From  their  bowers  of  light,  to  that  bordering  land, 
And  walk  in  the  fainter  glory  there, 

With  the  souls  of  the  living  hand  in  hand. 


THE  LAND   OF  DREAMS. 

One  calm  sweet  smile,  in  that  shadowy  sphere, 
From  eyes  that  open  on  earth  no  more — 

One  warning  word  from  a  voice  once  dear — 
How  they  rise  in  the  memory  o'er  and  o'er  ! 

Far  off  from  those  hills  that  shine  with  day 
And  fields  that  bloom  in  the  heavenly  gales, 

The  Land  of  Dreams  goes  stretching  away 
To  dimmer  mountains  and  darker  vales. 

There  lie  the  chambers  of  guilty  delight, 
There  walk  the  spectres  of  guilty  fear, 

And  soft  low  voices,  that  float  through  the  night, 
Are  whispering  sin  in  the  helpless  ear. 

Dear  maid,  in  thy  girlhood's  opening  flower, 
Scarce  weaned  from  the  love  of  childish  play  ! 

The  tears  on  whose  cheeks  are  but  the  shower 
That  freshens  the  blooms  of  early  May  ! 

Thine  eyes  are  closed,  and  over  thy  brow 
Pass  thoughtful  shadows  and  joyous  gleams, 

And  I  know,  by  thy  moving  lips,  that  now 
Thy  spirit  strays  in  the  Land  of  Dreams. 

Light-hearted  maiden,  oh,  heed  thy  feet ! 

O  keep  where  that  beam  of  Paradise  falls  : 
And  only  wander  where  thou  mayst  meet 

The  blessed  ones  from  its  shining  walls  ! 

So  shalt  thou  come  from  the  Land  of  Dreams, 
With  love  and  peace  to  this  world  of  strife  : 

And  the  light  which  over  that  border  streams 
Shall  lie  on  the  path  of  thy  daily  life. 


247 


248  LATER  POEMS. 


THE  BURIAL  OF   LOVE. 

Two  dark-eyed  maids,  at  shut  of  day, 
Sat  where  a  river  rolled  away, 
With  calm  sad  brows  and  raven  hair, 
And  one  was  pale  and  both  were  fair. 

Bring  flowers,  they  sang,  bring  flowers  unblown, 
Bring  forest-blooms  of  name  unknown ; 
Bring  budding  sprays  from  wood  and  wild, 
To  strew  the  bier  of  Love,  the  child. 

Close  softly,  fondly,  while  ye  weep, 
His  eyes,  that  death  may  seem  like  sleep, 
And  fold  his  hands  in  sign  of  rest, 
His  waxen  hands,  across  his  breast. 

And  make  his  grave  where  violets  hide, 
Where  star-flowers  strew  the  rivulet's  side, 
And  bluebirds  in  the  misty  spring 
Of  cloudless  skies  and  summer  sing. 

Place  near  him,  as  ye  lay  him  low,    . 
His  idle  shafts,  his  loosened  bow, 
The  silken  fillet  that  around 
•His  waggish  eyes  in  sport  he  wound. 

But  we  shall  mourn  him  long,  and  miss 

His  ready  smile,  his  ready  kiss, 

The  patter  of  his  little  feet, 

Sweet  frowns  and  stammered  phrases  sweet ; 


"THE  MAY  SUN."  249 

And  graver  looks,  serene  and  high, 
A  light  of  heaven  in  that  young  eye, 
All  these  shall  haunt  us  till  the  heart 
Shall  ache  and  ache — and  tears  will  start. 

The  bow,  the  band  shall  fall  to  dust, 
The  shining  arrows  waste  with  rust, 
And  all  of  Love  that  earth  can  claim, 
Be  but  a  memory  and  a  name. 

Not  thus  his  nobler  part  shall  dwell 
A  prisoner  in  this  narrow  cell ; 
But  he  whom  now  we  hide  from  men, 
In  the  dark  ground,  shall  live  again. 

Shall  break  these  clods,  a  form  of  light, 
With  nobler  mien  and  purer  sight, 
And  in  the  eternal  glory  stand, 
Highest  and  nearest  God's  right  hand. 


THE   MAY  SUN   SHEDS   AN   AMBER   LIGHT. 

THE  May  sun  sheds  an  amber  light 

On  new-leaved  woods  and  lawns  between  ; 
But  she  who,  with  a  smile  more  bright, 
Welcomed  and  watched  the  springing  green, 
Is  in  her  grave, 
Low  in  her  grave. 

The  fair  white  blossoms  of  the  wood 
In  groups  beside  the  pathway  stand ; 


25o  LATER  POEMS. 

But  one,  the  gentle  and  the  good, 

Who  cropped  them  with  a  fairer  hand, 
Is  in  her  grave, 
Low  in  her  grave. 

Upon  the  woodland's  morning  airs 

The  small  birds'  mingled  notes  are  flung ; 
But  she,  whose  voice,  more  sweet  than  theirs, 
Once  bade  me  listen  while  they  sung, 
Is  in  her  grave, 
Low  in  her  grave. 

That  music  of  the  early  year 

Brings  tears  of  anguish  to  my  eyes ; 
My  heart  aches  when  the  flowers  appear ; 
For  then  I  think  of  her  who  lies 

Within  her  grave, 
Low  in  her  grave. 


THE  VOICE  OF   AUTUMN. 

THERE  comes,  from  yonder  height, 

A  soft  repining  sound, 
Where  forest-leaves  are  bright, 
And  fall,  like  flakes  of  light, 

To  the  ground. 

It  is  the  autumn  breeze, 

That,  lightly  floating  on, 
Just  skims  the  weedy  leas, 
Just  stirs  the  glowing  trees, 
And  is  gone. 


THE    VOICE   OF  AUTUMN.  251 

He  moans  by  sedgy  brook, 

And  visits,  with  a  sigh, 
The  last  pale  flowers  that  look, 
From  out  their  sunny  nook, 
At  the  sky. 

O'er  shouting  children  flies 
That  light  October  wind, 
And,  kissing  cheeks  and  eyes, 
He  leaves  their  merry  cries 
Far  behind. 

And  wanders  on  to  make 
That  soft  uneasy  sound 
By  distant  wood  and  lake, 
Where  distant  fountains  break 
From  the  ground. 

No  bower  where  maidens  dwell 

Can  win  a  moment's  stay; 
Nor  fair  untrodden  dell ; 
He  sweeps  the  upland  swell, 
And  away ! 

Mourn'st  thou  thy  homeless  state  ? 

O  soft,  repining  wind  ! 
That  early  seek'st  and  late 
The  rest  it  is  thy  fate 

Not  to  find. 

Not  on  the  mountain's  breast, 

Not  on  the  ocean's  shore, 
In  all  the  East  and  West : 
The  wind  that  stops  to  rest 
Is  no  more. 


252 


LATER  POEMS. 

By  valleys,  woods,  and  springs, 

No  wonder  thou  shouldst  grieve 
For  all  the  glorious  things 
Thou  touchest  with  thy  wings 
And  must  leave. 


THE   CONQUEROR'S   GRAVE. 

WITHIN  this  lowly  grave  a  Conqueror  lies, 
And  yet  the  monument  proclaims  it  not, 
Nor  round  the  sleeper's  name  hath  chisel  wrought 

The  emblems  of  a  fame  that  never  dies, 
Ivy  and  amaranth,  in  a  graceful  sheaf, 
Twined  with  the  laurel's  fair,  imperial  leaf. 
A  simple  name  alone, 
To  the  great  world  unknown, 
Is  graven  here,  and  wild-flowers,  rising  round, 
Meek  meadow-sweet  and  violets  of  the  ground, 
Lean  lovingly  against  the  humble  stone. 

Here,  in  the  quiet  earth,  they  laid  apart 

No  man  of  iron  mould  and  bloody  hands, 
Who  sought  to  wreak  upon  the  cowering  lands 

The  passions  that  consumed  his  restless  heart; 
But  one  of  tender  spirit  and  delicate  frame, 
Gentlest,  in  mien  and  mind, 
Of  gentle  womankind, 

Timidly  shrinking  from  the  breath  of  blame  : 
One  in  whose  eyes  the  smile  of  kindness  made 

Its  haunt,  like  flowers  by  sunny  brooks  in  May, 
Yet,  at  the  thought  of  others'  pain,  a  shade 

Of  sweeter  sadness  chased  the  smile  away. 


THE  CONQUEROR'S  GRAVE.  253 

Nor  deem  that  when  the  hand  that  moulders  here 
Was  raised  in  menace,  realms  were  chilled  with  fear, 

And  armies  mustered  at  the  sign,  as  when 
Clouds  rise  on  clouds  before  the  rainy  East — 

Gray  captains  leading  bands  of  veteran  men 
And  fiery  youths  to  be  the  vulture's  feast. 
Not  thus  were  waged  the  mighty  wars  that  gave 
The  victory  to  her  who  fills  this  grave  : 
Alone  her  task  was  wrought, 
Alone  the  battle  fought ; 

Through  that  long  strife  her  constant  hope?  was  staid 
On  God  alone,  nor  looked  for  other  aid. 


She  met  the  hosts  of  Sorrow  with  a  look 

That  altered  not  beneath  the  frown  they  wore, 
And  soon  the  lowering  brood  were  tamed,  and  took, 

Meekly,  her  gentle  rule,  and  frowned  no  more. 
Her  soft  hand  put  aside  the  assaults  of  wrath, 
And  calmly  broke  in  twain 
The  fiery  shafts  of  pain, 
And  rent  the  nets  of  passion  from  her  path. 

By  that  victorious  hand  despair  was  slain. 
With  love  she  vanquished  hate  and  overcame 

Evil  with  good,  in  her  Great  Master's  name. 

Her  glory  is  not  of  this  shadowy  state, 

Glory  that  with  the  fleeting  season  dies ; 
But  when  she  entered  at  the  sapphire  gate 

What  joy  was  radiant  in  celestial  eyes  ! 
How  heaven's  bright  depths  with  sounding  welcomes  rung, 
And  flowers  of  heaven  by  shining  hands  were  flung. 
And  He  who,  long  before, 
Pain,  scorn,  and  sorrow  bore, 


LATER  POEMS. 

The  Mighty  Sufferer,  with  aspect  sweet, 

Smiled  on  the  timid  stranger  from  his  seat ; 

He  who  returning,  glorious,  from  the  grave, 

Dragged  Death,  disarmed,  in  chains,  a  crouching  slave. 

See,  as  I  linger  here,  the  sun  grows  low ; 

Cool  airs  are  murmuring  that  the  night  is  near. 
Oh,  gentle,  sleeper,  from  thy  grave  I  go 

Consoled  though  sad,  in  hope  and  yet  in  fear. 
Brief  is  the  time,  I  know, 
The  warfare  scarce  begun  ; 
Yet  all  may  win  the  triumphs  thou  hast  won. 
Still  flows  the  fount  whose  waters  strengthened  thee, 

The  victors'  names  are  yet  too  few  to  fill 
Heaven's  mighty  roll ;  the  glorious  armory, 

That  ministered  to  thee,  is  open  still. 


THE   PLANTING   OF   THE  APPLE-TREE. 

COME,  let  us  plant  the  apple-tree. 
Cleave  the  tough  greensward  with  the  spade  ; 
Wide  let  its  hollow  bed  be  made  ; 
There  gently  lay  the  roots,  and  there 
Sift  the  dark  mould  with  kindly  care, 

And  press  it  o'er  them  tenderly, 
As,  round  the  sleeping  infant's  feet 
We  softly  fold  the  cradle-sheet ; 

So  plant  we  the  apple-tree. 

What  plant  we  in  this  apple-tree  ? 
Buds,  which  the  breath  of  summer  days 
Shall  lengthen  into  leafy  sprays  ; 


THE  PLANTING   OF  THE  APPLE-TREE. 

Boughs  where  the  thrush,  with  crimson  breast, 
Shall  haunt  and  sing  and  hide  her  nest ; 

We  plant,  upon  the  sunny  lea, 
A  shadow  for  the  noontide  hour, 
A  shelter  from  the  summer  shower, 

When  we  plant  the  apple-tree. 

What  plant  we  in  this  apple-tree  ? 
Sweets  for  a  hundred  flowery  springs 
To  load  the  May-wind's  restless  wings, 
When,  from  the  orchard-row,  he  pours 
Its  fragrance  through  our  open  doors ; 

A  world  of  blossoms  for  the  bee, 
Flowers  for  the  sick  girl's  silent  room, 
For  the  glad  infant  sprigs  of  bloom, 

We  plant  with  the  apple-tree. 

What  plant  we  in  this  apple-tree  ? 
Fruits  that  shall  swell  in  sunny  June, 
And  redden  in  the  August  noon, 
And  drop,  when  gentle  airs  come  by, 
That  fan  the  blue  September  sky, 

While  children  come,  with  cries  of  glee, 
And  seek  them  where  the  fragrant  grass 
Betrays  their  bed  to  those  who  pass, 

At  the  foot  of  the  apple-tree. 

And  when,  above  this  apple-tree, 
The  winter  stars  are  quivering  bright, 
And  winds  go  howling  through  the  night, 
Girls,  whose  young  eyes  o'erflow  with  mirth, 
Shall  peel  its  fruit  by  cottage-hearth, 

And  guests  in  prouder  homes  shall  see, 


256  LATER  POEMS. 

Heaped  with  the  grape  of  Cintra's  vine  . 
And  golden  orange  of  the  line, 
The  fruit  of  the  apple-tree. 

The  fruitage  of  this  apple-tree 
Winds  and  our  flag  of  stripe  and  star 
Shall  bear  to  coasts  that  lie  afar, 
Where  men  shall  wonder  at  the  view, 
And  ask  in  what  fair  groves  they  grew  ; 

And  sojourners  beyond  the  sea 
Shall  think  of  childhood's  careless  day, 
And  long,  long  hours  of  summer  play, 

In  the  shade  of  the  apple-tree. 

Each  year  shall  give  this  apple-tree 
A  broader  flush  of  roseate  bloom, 
A  deeper  maze  of  verdurous  gloom, 
And  loosen,  when  the  frost-clouds  lower, 
The  crisp  brown  leaves  in  thicker  shower; 

The  years  shall  come  and  pass,  but  we 
Shall  hear  no  longer,  where  we  lie, 
The  summer's  songs,  the  autumn's  sigh, 

In  the  boughs  of  the  apple-tree. 

And  time  shall  waste  this  apple-tree. 
Oh,  when  its  aged  branches  throw 
Thin  shadows  on  the  ground  below, 
Shall  fraud  and  force  and  iron  will 
Oppress  the  weak  and  helpless  still  ? 

What  shall  the  tasks  of  mercy  be, 
Amid  the  toils,  the  strifes,  the  tears 
Of  those  who  live  when  length  of  years 

Is  wasting  this  little  apple-tree  ? 


THE  SNOW-SHOWER.  257 

"  Who  planted  this  old  apple-tree  ?  " 
The  children  of  that  distant  day 
Thus  to  some  aged  man  shall  say ; 
And,  gazing  on  its  mossy  stem, 
The  gray-haired  man  shall  answer  them : 

"  A  poet  of  the  land  was  he, 
Born  in  the  rude  but  good  old  times ; 
'Tis  said  he  made  some  quaint  old  rhymes, 

On  planting  the  apple-tree." 


THE   SNOW-SHOWER. 

STAND  here  by  my  side  and  turn,  I  pray, 
On  the  lake  below  thy  gentle  eyes  ; 

The  clouds  hang  over  it,  heavy  and  gray, 
And  dark  and  silent  the  water  lies  ; 

And  out  of  that  frozen  mist  the  snow 

In  wavering  flakes  begins  to  flow ; 
Flake  after  flake 

They  sink  in  the  dark  and  silent  lake. 

See  how  in  a  living  swarm  they  come 
From  the  chambers  beyond  that  misty  veil ; 

Some  hover  awhile  in  air,  and  some 
Rush  prone  from  the  sky  like  summer  hail. 

All,  dropping  swiftly  or  settling  slow, 

Meet,  and  are  still  in  the  depths  below ; 
Flake  after  flake 

Dissolved  in  the  dark  and  silent  lake. 

Here  delicate  snow-stars,  out  of  the  cloud, 
Come  floating  downward  in  airy  play, 


258  LATER  POEMS. 

Like  spangles  dropped  from  the  glistening  crowd 

That  whiten  by  night  the  milky  way ; 
There  broader  and  burlier  masses  fall ; 
The  sullen  water  buries  them  all — 

Flake  after  flake- 
All  drowned  in  the  dark  and  silent  lake. 


And  some,  as  on  tender  wings  they  glide 
From  their  chilly  birth-cloud,  dim  and  gray, 

Are  joined  in  their  fall,  and,  side  by  side, 
Come  clinging  along  their  unsteady  way; 

As  friend  with  friend,  or  husband  with  wife, 

Makes  hand  in  hand  the  passage  of  life ; 
Each  mated  flake 

Soon  sinks  in  the  dark  and  silent  lake. 

Lo !  while  we  are  gazing,  in  swifter  haste 
Stream  down  the  snows,  till  the  air  is  white, 

As,  myriads  by  myriads  madly  chased, 

They  fling  themselves  from  their  shadowy  height. 

The  fair,  frail  creatures  of  middle  sky, 

What  speed  they  make,  with  their  grave  so  nigh ; 
Flake  after  flake, 

To  lie  in  the  dark  and  silent  lake  ! 

I  see  in  thy  gentle  eyes  a  tear  ; 

They  turn  to  me  in  sorrowful  thought ; 
Thou  thinkest  of  friends,  the  good  and  dear, 

Who  were  for  a  time,  and  now  are  not ; 
Like  these  fair  children  of  cloud  and  frost, 
That  glisten  a  moment  and  then  are  lost, 

Flake  after  flake- 
All  lost  in  the  dark  and  silent  lake. 


Who  is  not  awed  that  listens  to  the  Rain, 
Sending  his  voice  bcfcrc  h'm? 

A  RAIN-DREAM,  p.  259. 


divide 


A  RAIN-DREAM. 

Yet  look  again,  for  the  clouds  divide ; 

A  gleam  of  blue  on  the  water  lies ; 
And  far  away,  on  the  mountain-side, 

A  sunbeam  falls  from  the  opening  skies. 
But  the  hurrying  host  that  flew  between 
The  cloud  and  the  water,  no  more  is  seen ; 

Flake  after  flake, 
At  rest  in  the  dark  and  silent  lake. 


A  RAIN-DREAM. 

THESE  strifes,  these  tumults  of  the  noisy  world, 
Where  Fraud,  the  coward,  tracks  his  prey  by  stealth, 
And  Strength,  the  ruffian,  glories  in  his  guilt, 
Oppress  the  heart  with  sadness.     Oh,  my  friend, 
In  what  serener  mood  we  look  upon 
The  gloomiest  aspects  of  the  elements 
Among  the  woods  and  fields  !     Let  us  awhile, 
As  the  slow  wind  is  rolling  up  the  storm, 
In  fancy  leave  this  maze  of  dusty  streets, 
Forever  shaken  by  the  importunate  jar 
Of  commerce,  and  upon  the  darkening  air 
Look  from  the  shelter  of  our  rural  home. 

Who  is  not  awed  that  listens  to  the  Rain, 
Sending  his  voice  before  him  ?     Mighty  Rain  ! 
The  upland  steeps  are  shrouded  by  thy  mists ; 
Thy  shadow  fills  the  hollow  vale  ;  the  pools 
No  longer  glimmer,  and  the  silvery  streams 
Darken  to  veins  of  lead  at  thy  approach. 
O  mighty  Rain  !  already  thou  art  here ; 
And  every  roof  is  beaten  by  thy  streams, 


259 


260  LATER  POEMS. 

And,  as  thou  passest,  every  glassy  spring 
Grows  rough,  and  every  leaf  in  all  the  woods 
Is  struck,  and  quivers.     All  the  hill-tops  slake 
Their  thirst  from  thee;  a  thousand  languishing  fields 
A  thousand  fainting  gardens,  are  refreshed ; 
A  thousand  idle  rivulets  start  to  speed, 
And  with  the  graver  murmur  of  the  storm 
Blend  their  light  voices  as  they  hurry  on. 

Thou  fill'st  the  circle  of  the  atmosphere 
Alone ;  there  is  no  living  thing  abroad, 
No  bird  to  wing  the  air  nor  beast  to  walk 
The  field;  the  squirrel  in  the  forest  seeks 
His  hollow  tree ;  the  marmot  of  the  field 
Has  scampered  to  his  den  ;  the  butterfly 
Hides  under  her  broad  leaf;  the  insect  crowds, 
That  made  the  sunshine  populous,  lie  close 
In  their  mysterious  shelters,  whence  the  sun 
Will  summon  them  again.     The  mighty  Rain 
Holds  the  vast  empire  of  the  sky  alone. 

I  shut  my  eyes,  and  see,  as  in  a  dream, 
The  friendly  clouds  drop  down  spring  violets 
And  summer  columbines,  and  all  the  flowers 
That  tuft  the  woodland  floor,  or  overarch 
The  streamlet : — spiky  grass  for  genial  June, 
Brown  harvests  for  the  waiting  husbandman, 
And  for  the  woods  a  deluge  of  fresh  leaves. 

I  see  these  myriad  drops  that  slake  the  dust, 
Gathered  in  glorious  streams,  or  rolling  blue 
In  billows  on  the  lake  or  on  the  deep, 
And  bearing  navies.     I  behold  them  change 
To  threads  of  crystal  as  they  sink  in  earth 
And  leave  its  stains  behind,  to  rise  again 
Tn  pleasant  nooks  of  verdure,  where  the  child, 
Thirsty  with  play,  in  both  his  little  hands 


ROBERT  OF  LINCOLN. 

Modest  and  shy  as  a  nun  is  she ; 

One  weak  chirp  is  her  only  note. 
Braggart  and  prince  of  braggarts  is  he, 
Pouring  boasts  from  his  little  throat ; 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink; 
Never  was  I  afraid  of  man ; 
Catch  me,  cowardly  knaves,  if  you  can  ! 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Six  white  eggs  on  a  bed  of  hay, 

Flecked  with  purple,  a  pretty  sight ! 
There  as  the  mother  sits  all  day, 

Robert  is  singing  with  all  his  might : 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink; 
Nice  good  wife,  that  never  goes  out, 
Keeping  house  while  I  frolic  about. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Soon  as  the  little  ones  chip  the  shell 

Six  wide  mouths  are  open  for  food ; 
Robert  of  Lincoln  bestirs  him  well, 
Gathering  seeds  for  the  hungry  brood. 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink ; 
This  new  life  is  likely  to  be 
Hard  for  a  gay  young  fellow  like  me. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Robert  of  Lincoln  at  length  is  made 
Sober  with  work,  and  silent  with  care ; 

Off  is  his  holiday  garment  laid, 
Half  forgotten  that  merry  air  : 


264  LATER  POEMS. 

Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 

Spink,  spank,  spink; 
Nobody  knows  but  my  mate  and  I 
Where  our  nest  and  our  nestlings  lie. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Summer  wanes  ;  the  children  are  grown  ; 

Fun  and  frolic  no  more  he  knows  ; 
Robert  of  Lincoln's  a  humdrum  crone ; 
Off  he  flies,  and  we  sing  as  he  goes  : 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink; 
When  you  can  pipe  that  merry  old  strain, 
Robert  of  Lincoln,  come  back  again. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 


THE   TWENTY-SEVENTH   OF   MARCH. 

OH,  gentle  one,  thy  birthday  sun  should  rise 
Amid  a  chorus  of  the  merriest  birds 
That  ever  sang  the  stars  out  of  the  sky 
In  a  June  morning.     Rivulets  should  send 
A  voice  of  gladness  from  their  winding  paths, 
Deep  in  o'erarching  grass,  where  playful  winds, 
Stirring  the  loaded  stems,  should  shower  the  dew 
Upon  the  grassy  water.     Newly-blown 
Roses,  by  thousands,  to  the  garden-walks 
Should  tempt  the  loitering  moth  and  diligent  bee. 
The  longest,  brightest  day  in  all  the  year 
Should  be  the  day  on  which  thy  cheerful  eyes 
First  opened  on  the  earth,  to  make  thy  haunts 
Fairer  and  gladder  for  thy  kindly  looks. 


THE   TWENTY-SEVENTH  OF  MARCH. 

Thus  might  a  poet  say ;  but  I  must  bring 
A  birthday  offering  of  an  humbler  strain, 
And  yet  it  may  not  please  thee  less.     I  hold 
That  'twas  the  fitting  season  for  thy  birth 
When  March,  just  ready  to  depart,  begins 
To  soften  into  April.     Then  we  have 
The  delicatest  and  most  welcome  flowers, 
And  yet  they  take  least  heed  of  bitter  wind 
And  lowering  sky.     The  periwinkle  then, 
In  an  hour's  sunshine,  lifts  her  azure  blooms 
Beside  the  cottage-door ;  within  the  woods 
Tufts  of  ground-laurel,  creeping  underneath 
The  leaves  of  the  last  summer,  send  their  sweets 
Up  to  the  chilly  air,  and,  by  the  oak, 
The  squirrel-cups,  a  graceful  company, 
Hide  in  their  bells,  a  soft  aerial  blue — 
Sweet  flowers,  that  nestle  in  the  humblest  nooks, 
And  yet  within  whose  smallest  bud  is  wrapped 
A  world  of  promise  !     Still  the  north  wind  breathes 
His  frost,  and  still  the  sky  sheds  snow  and  sleet; 
Yet  ever,  when  the  sun  looks  forth  again, 
The  flowers  smile  up  to  him  from  their  low  seats. 

Well  hast  thou  borne  the  bleak  March  day  of  life. 
Its  storms  and  its  keen  winds  to  thee  have  been 
Most  kindly  tempered,  and  through  all  its  gloom 
There  has  been  warmth  and  sunshine  in  thy  heart ; 
The  griefs  of  life  to  thee  have  been  like  snows, 
That  light  upon  the  fields  in  early  spring, 
Making  them  greener.     In  its  milder  hours, 
The  smile  of  this  pale  season,  thou  hast  seen, 
The  glorious  bloom  of  June,  and  in  the  note 
Of  early  bird,  that  comes  a  messenger 
From  climes  of  endless  verdure,  thou  hast  heard 
The  choir  that  fills  the  summer  woods  with  song. 

23 


265 


2 66  LATER  POEMS. 

Now  be  the  hours  that  yet  remain  to  thee 
Stormy  or  sunny,  sympathy  and  love, 
That  inextinguishably  dwell  within  . 
Thy  heart,  shall  give  a  beauty  and  a  light 
To  the  most  desolate  moments,  like  the  glow 
Of  a  bright  fireside  in  the  wildest  day ; 
And  kindly  words  and  offices  of  good 
Shall  wait  upon  thy  steps,  as  thou  goest  on, 
Where  God  shall  lead  thee,  till  thou  reach  the  gates 
Of  a  more  genial  season,  and  thy  path 
Be  lost  to  human  eye  among  the  bowers 
And  living  fountains  of  a  brighter  land. 
March,  1855. 


AN   INVITATION   TO   THE   COUNTRY. 

ALREADY,  close  by  our  summer  dwelling, 
The  Easter  sparrow  repeats  her  song ; 

A  merry  warbler,  she  chides  the  blossoms — 
The  idle  blossoms  that  sleep  so  long. 

The  bluebird  chants,  from  the  elm's  long  branches, 
A  hymn  to  welcome  the  budding  year. 

The  south  wind  wanders  from  field  to  forest, 
And  softly  whispers,  "  The  Spring  is  here." 

Come,  daughter  mine,  from  the  gloomy  city, 
Before  those  lays  from  the  elm  have  ceased ; 

The  violet  breathes,  by  our  door,  as  sweetly 
As  in  the  air  of  her  native  East. 

Though  many  a  flower  in  the  wood  is  waking, 
The  daffodil  is  our  doorside  queen  ; 


A   SONG  FOR  NEW-YEARS  EVE.  267 

She  pushes  upward  the  sward  already, 
To  spot  with  sunshine  the  early  green. 

No  lays  so  joyous  as  these  are  warbled 

From  wiry  prison  in  maiden's  bower ; 
No  pampered  bloom  of  the  green-house  chamber 

Has  half  the  charm  of  the  lawn's  first  flower. 

Yet  these  sweet  sounds  of  the  early  season, 

And  these  fair  sights  of  its  sunny  days, 
Are  only  sweet  when  we  fondly  listen, 

And  only  fair  when  we  fondly  gaze. 

There  is  no  glory  in  star  or  blossom 

Till  looked  upon  by  a  loving  eye ; 
There  is  no  fragrance  in  April  breezes 

Till  breathed  with  joy  as  they  wander  by. 

Come,  Julia  dear,  for  the  sprouting  willows, 
The  opening  flowers,  and  the  gleaming  brooks. 

And  hollows,  green  in  the  sun,  are  waiting 
Their  dower  of  beauty  from  thy  glad  looks. 


A   SONG   FOR  NEW-YEAR'S   EVE. 

STAY  yet,  my  friends,  a  moment  stay — 

Stay  till  the  good  old  year, 
So  long  companion  of  our  way, 

Shakes  hands,  and  leaves  us  here. 

Oh  stay,  oh  stay, 
One  little  hour,  and  then  away. 


268  LATER  POEMS. 

The  year,  whose  hopes  were  high  and  strong, 

Has  now  no  hopes  to  wake  ; 
Yet  one  hour  more  of  jest  and  song 

For  his  familiar  sake. 

Oh  stay,  oh  stay, 
One  mirthful  hour,  and  then  away. 

The  kindly  year,  his  liberal  hands 

Have  lavished  all  his  store. 
And  shall  we  turn  from  where  he  stands, 

Because  he  gives  no  more  ? 

Oh  stay,  oh  stay, 
One  grateful  hour,  and  then  away. 

Days  brightly  came  and  calmly  went, 

While  yet  he  was  our  guest ; 
How  cheerfully  the  week  was  spent ! 

How  sweet  the  seventh  day's  rest ! 

Oh  stay,  oh  stay, 
One  golden  hour,  and  then  away. 

Dear  friends  were  with  us,  some  who  sleep 

Beneath  the  coffin-lid : 
What  pleasant  memories  we  keep 

Of  all  they  said  and  did ! 
Oh  stay,  oh  stay, 
One  tender  hour,  and  then  away. 

Even  while  we  sing,  he  smiles  his  last, 
And  leaves  our  sphere  behind. 

The  good  old  year  is  with  the  past ; 
Oh  be  the  new  as  kind  ! 
Oh  stay,  oh  stay, 

One  parting  strain,  and  then  away. 


THE    WIND  AND  STREAM.  269 


THE   WIND   AND    STREAM. 

A  BROOK  came  stealing  from  the  ground  ; 

You  scarcely  saw  its  silvery  gleam 
Among  the  herbs  that  hung  around  • 

The  borders  of  that  winding  stream, 
The  pretty  stream,  the  placid  stream, 
The  softly-gliding,  bashful  stream. 

A  breeze  came  wandering  from  the  sky, 
Light  as  the  whispers  of  a  dream ; 

He  put  the  o'erhanging  grasses  by, 
And  softly  stooped  to  kiss  the  stream, 

The  pretty  stream,  the  flattered  stream, 

The  shy,  yet  unreluctant  stream. 

The  water,  as  the  wind  passed  o'er, 
Shot  upward  many  a  glancing  beam, 

Dimpled  and  quivered  more  and  more, 
And  tripped  along,  a  livelier  stream, 

The  flattered  stream,  the  simpering  stream, 

The  fond,  delighted,  silly  stream. 

Away  the  airy  wanderer  flew 

To  where  the  fields  with  blossoms  teem, 
To  sparkling  springs  and  rivers  blue, 

And  left  alone  that  little  stream, 
The  flattered  stream,  the  cheated  stream, 
The  sad,  forsaken,  lonely  stream.     , 

That  careless  wind  came  never  back ; 
He  wanders  yet  the  fields,  I  deem, 


270  LATER  POEMS. 

But,  on  its  melancholy  track, 

Complaining  went  that  little  stream, 
The  cheated  stream,  the  hopeless  stream, 
The  ever-murmuring,  mourning  stream. 


THE   LOST  BIRD. 

FROM   THE   SPANISH  OF  CAROLINA  CORONADO   DE  PERRY. 

MY  bird  has  flown  away, 
Far  out  of  sight  has  flown,  I  know  not  where. 

Look  in  your  lawn,  I  pray, 

Ye  maidens,  kind  and  fair, 
And  see  if  my  beloved  bird  be  there. 

His  eyes  are  full  of  light ; 
The  eagle  of  the  rock  has  such  an  eye ; 

And  plumes,  exceeding  bright, 

Round  his  smooth  temples  lie, 
And  sweet  his  voice  and  tender  as  a  sigh. 

Look  where  the  grass  is  gay 
With  summer  blossoms,  haply  there  he  cowers ; 

And  search,  from  spray  to  spray, 

The  leafy  laurel-bowers, 
For  well  he  loves  the  laurels  and  the  flowers. 

Find  him,  but  do  not  dwell, 
With  eyes  too  fond,  on  the  fair  form  you  see, 

Nor  love  his  song  too  well ; 

Send  him,  at  once,  to  me, 
Or  leave  him  to  the  air  and  libertv. 


THE  NIGHT  JOURNEY  OF  A   RIVER.        271 

For  only  from  my  hand 
He  takes  the  seed  into  his  golden  beak, 

And  all  unwiped  shall  stand 

The  tears  that  wet  my  cheek, 
Till  I  have  found  the  wanderer  I  seek. 

My  sight  is  darkened  o'er, 
Whene'er  I  miss  his  eyes,  which  are  my  day, 

And  when  I  hear  no  more 

The  music  of  his  lay, 
My  heart  in  utter  sadness  faints  away. 


THE  NIGHT  JOURNEY   OF   A    RIVER. 

OH  River,  gentle  River  !  gliding  on 

In  silence  underneath  this  starless  sky  ! 

Thine  is  a  ministry  that  never  rests 

Even  while  the  living  slumber.     For  a  time 

The  meddler,  man,  hath  left  the  elements 

In  peace ;  the  ploughman  breaks  the  clods  no  more ; 

The  miner  labors  not,  with  steel  and  fire, 

To  rend  the  rock,  and  he  that  hews  the  stone, 

And  he  that  fells  the  forest,  he  that  guides 

The  loaded  wain,  and  the  poor  animal 

That  drags  it,  have  forgotten,  for  a  time, 

Their  toils,  and  share  the  quiet  of  the  earth. 

Thou  pausest  not  in  thine  allotted  task, 
Oh  darkling  River !     Through  the  night  I  hear 
Thy  wavelets  rippling  on  the  pebbly  beach ; 
I  hear  thy  current  stir  the  rustling  sedge, 
That  skirts  thy  bed ;  thou  intermittest  not 


272 


LATER  POEMS. 

Thine  everlasting  journey,  drawing  on 
A  silvery  train  from  many  a  woodland  spring 
And  mountain-brook.     The  dweller  by  thy  side, 
Who  moored  his  little  boat  upon  thy  beach, 
Though  all  the  waters  that  upbore  it  then 
Have  slid  away  o'er  night,  shall  find,  at  morn, 
Thy  channel  filled  with  waters  freshly  drawn 
From  distant  cliffs,  and  hollows  where  the  rill 
Comes  up  amid  the  water-flags.     All  night 
Thou  givest  moisture  to  the  thirsty  roots 
Of  the  lithe  willow  and  o'erhanging  plane, 
And  cherishest  the  herbage  of  thy  bank, 
Spotted  with  little  flowers,  and  sendest  up 
Perpetually  the  vapors  from  thy  face, 
To  steep  the  hills  with  dew,  or  darken  heaven 
With  drifting  clouds,  that  trail  the  shadowy  shower, 

Oh  River !  darkling  River !  what  a  voice 
Is  that  thou  utterest  while  all  else  is  still — 
The  ancient  voice  that,  centuries  ago, 
Sounded  between  thy  hills,  while  Rome  was  yet 
A  weedy  solitude  by  Tiber's  stream ! 
How  many,  at  this  hour,  along  thy  course, 
Slumber  to  thine  eternal  murmurings, 
That  mingle  with  the  utterance  of  their  dreams ! 
At  dead  of  night  the  child  awakes  and  hears 
Thy  soft,  familiar  dashings,  and  is  soothed, 
And  sleeps  again.     An  airy  multitude 
Of  little  echoes,  all  unheard  by  day, 
Faintly  repeat,  till  morning,  after  thee, 
The  story  of  thine  endless  goings  forth. 

Yet  there  are  those  who  lie  beside  thy  bed 
For  whom  thou  once  didst  rear  the  bowers  that  screen 
Thy  margin,  and  didst  water  the  green  fields  ; 
And  now  there  is  no  night  so  still  that  they 


THE  NIGHT  JOURNEY  OF  A  RIVER.        273 

Can  hear  thy  lapse  ;  their  slumbers,  were  thy  voice 
Louder  than  Ocean's,  it  could  never  break. 
For  them  the  early  violet  no  more 
Opens  upon  thy  bank,  nor,  for  their  eyes, 
Glitter  the  crimson  pictures  of  the  clouds, 
Upon  thy  bosom,  when  the  sun  goes  down. 
Their  memories  are  abroad,  the  memories 
Of  those  who  last  were  gathered  to  the  earth, 
Lingering  within  the  homes  in  which  they  sat, 
Hovering  above  the  paths  in  which  they  walked, 
Haunting  them  like  a  presence.     Even  now 
They  visit  many  a  dreamer  in  the  forms 
They  walked  in,  ere  at  last  they  wore  the  shroud. 
And  eyes  there  are  which  will  not  close  to  dream, 
For  weeping  and  for  thinking  of  the  grave, 
The  new-made  grave,  and  the  pale  one  within. 
These  memories  and  these  sorrows  all  shall  fade, 
And  pass  away,  and  fresher  memories 
And  newer  sorrows  come  and  dwell  awhile 
Beside  thy  borders,  and,  in  turn,  depart. 

On  glide  thy  waters,  till  at  last  they  flow 
Beneath  the  windows  of  the  populous  town, 
And  all  night  long  give  back  the  gleam  of  lamps, 
And  glimmer  with  the  trains  of  light  that  stream 
From  halls  where  dancers  whirl.     A  dimmer  ray 
Touches  thy  surface  from  the  silent  room 
In  which  they  tend  the  sick,  or  gather  round 
The  dying ;  and  a  slender,  steady  beam 
Comes  from  the  little  chamber,  in  the  roof 
Where,  with  a  feverous  crimson  on  her  cheek, 
The  solitary  damsel,  dying,  too, 
Plies  the  quick  needle  till  the  stars  grow  pale. 
There,  close  beside  the  haunts  of  revel,  stand 
The  blank,  unlighted  windows,  where  the  poor, 


LATER  POEMS 

In  hunger  and  in  darkness,  wake  till  morn. 
There,  drowsily,  on  the  half-conscious  ear 
Of  the  dull  watchman,  pacing  on  the  wharf, 
Falls  the  soft  ripple  of  the  waves  that  strike 
On  the  moored  bark ;  but  guiltier  listeners 
Are  nigh,  the  prowlers  of  the  night,  who  steal 
From  shadowy  nook  to  shadowy  nook,  and  start 
If  other  sounds  than  thine  are  in  the  air. 

Oh,  glide  away  from  those  abodes,  that  bring 
Pollution  to  thy  channel  and  make  foul 
Thy  once  clear  current ;  summon  thy  quick  waves 
And  dimpling  eddies  ;  linger  not,  but  haste, 
With  all  thy  waters,  haste  thee  to  the  deep, 
There  to  be  tossed  by  shifting  winds  and  rocked 
By  that  mysterious  force  which  lives  within 
The  sea's  immensity,  and  wields  the  weight 
Of  its  abysses,  swaying  to  and  fro 
The  billowy  mass,  until  the  stain,  at  length, 
Shall  wholly  pass  away,  and  thou  regain 
The  crystal  brightness  of  thy  mountain-springs. 


THE   LIFE   THAT   IS. 

THOU,  who  so  long  hast  pressed  the  couch  of  pain, 
Oh  welcome,  welcome  back  to  life's  free  breath — 

To  life's  free  breath  and  day's  sweet  light  again, 
From  the  chill  shadows  of  the  gate  of  death  ! 

For  thou  hadst  reached  the  twilight  bound  between 
The  world  of  spirits  and  this  grosser  sphere  ; 

Dimly  by  thee  the  things  of  earth  were  seen, 
And  faintly  fell  earth's  voices  on  thine  ear. 


THE  LIFE   THAI  IS.  275 

And  now,  how  gladly  we  behold,  at  last, 

The  wonted  smile  returning  to  thy  brow ; 
The  very  wind's  low  whisper,  breathing  past, 

In  the  light  leaves,  is  music  to  thee  now. 

Thou  wert  not  weary  of  thy  lot ;  the  earth 

Was  ever  good  and  pleasant  in  thy  sight ; 
Still  clung  thy  loves  about  the  household  hearth, 

And  sweet  was  every  day's  returning  light. 

Then  welcome  back  to  all  thou  wouldst  not  leave, 
To  this  grand  march  of  seasons,  days,  and  hours  j 

The  glory  of  the  morn,  the  glow  of  eve, 
The  beauty  of  the  streams,  and  stars,  and  flowers  j 

To  eyes  on  which  thine  own  delight  to  rest ; 

To  voices  which  it  is  thy  joy  to  hear ; 
To  the  kind  toils  that  ever  pleased  thee  best, 

The  willing  tasks  of  love,  that  made  life  dear. 

Welcome  to  grasp  of  friendly  hands ;  to  prayers 
Offered  where  crowds  in  reverent  worship  come, 

Or  softly  breathed  amid  the  tender  cares 
And  loving  inmates  of  thy  quiet  home. 

Thou  bring'st  no  tidings  of  the  better  land, 

Even  from  its  verge  ;  the  mysteries  opened  there 

Are  what  the  faithful  heart  may  understand 
In  its  still  depths,  yet  words  may  not  declare. 

And  well  I  deem,  that,  from  the  brighter  side 
Of  life's  dim  border,  some  o'erflowing  rays 

Streamed  from  the  inner  glory,  shall  abide 
Upon  thy  spirit  through  the  coming  days. 


276  LATER  POEMS. 

Twice  wert  thou  given  me;  once  in  thy  fair  prime, 
Fresh  from  the  fields  of  youth,  when  first  we  met, 

And  all  the  blossoms  of  that  hopeful  time 

Clustered  and  glowed  where'er  thy  steps  were  set. 

And  now,  in  thy  ripe  autumn,  once  again 

Given  back  to  fervent  prayers  and  yearnings  strong, 

From  the  drear  realm  of  sickness  and  of  pain 
When  we  had  watched,  and  feared,  and  trembled  long. 

Now  may  we  keep  thee  from  the  balmy  air 
And  radiant  walks  of  heaven  a  little  space, 

Where  He,  who  went  before  thee  to  prepare 

For  His  meek  followers,  shall  assign  thy  place. 
CASTELLAMARE,  May,  1858. 


SONG. 

;  THESE  PRAIRIES  GLOW  WITH  FLOWERS.' 

THESE  prairies  glow  with  flowers, 

These  groves  are  tall  and  fair, 
The  sweet  lay  of  the  mocking-bird 

Rings  in  the  morning  air ; 
And  yet  I  pine  to  see 

My  native  hill  once  more, 
And  hear  the  sparrow's  friendly  chirp 

Beside  its  cottage-door. 

And  he,  for  whom  I  left 

My  native  hill  and  brook, 
Alas,  I  sometimes  think  I  trace 

A  coldness  in  his  look ! 


A   SICK-BED. 

If  I  have  lost  his  love, 

I  know  my  heart  will  break  ; 
And  haply,  they  I  left  for  him 

Will  sorrow  for  my  sake. 


A   SICK-BED. 

LONG  hast  thou  watched  my  bed, 
And  smoothed  the  pillow  oft 

For  this  poor,  aching  head, 
With  touches  kind  and  soft. 

Oh  !  smooth  it  yet  again, 

As  softly  as  before  j 
Once — only  once— and  then 

I  need  thy  hand  no  more. 

Yet  here  I  may  not  stay, 
Where  I  so  long  have  lain, 

Through  many  a  restless  day 
And  many  a  night  of  pain. 

But  bear  me  gently  forth 

Beneath  the  open  sky, 
Where,  on  the  pleasant  earth, 

Till  night  the  sunbeams  lie. 

There,  through  the  coming  days, 

I  shall  not  look  to  thee 
My  weary  side  to  raise, 

And  shift  it  tenderlv. 


2?8 


LATER  POEMS. 

There  sweetly  shall  I  sleep  ; 

Nor  wilt  thou  need  to  bring 
And  put  to  my  hot  lip 

Cool  water  from  the  spring ; 

Nor  wet  the  kerchief  laid 

Upon  my  burning  brow ; 
Nor  from  my  eyeballs  shade 

The  light  that  wounds  them  now ; 

Nor  watch  that  none  shall  tread, 

With  noisy  footstep,  nigh ; 
Nor  listen  by  my  bed, 

To  hear  my  faintest  sigh, 

And  feign  a  look  of  cheer, 
And  words  of  comfort  speak, 

Yet  turn  to  hide  the  tear 
That  gathers  on  thy  cheek. 

Beside  me,  where  I  rest, 

Thy  loving  hands  will  set 
The  flowers  that  please  me  best — 

Moss-rose  and  violet. 

Then  to  the  sleep  I  crave 

Resign  me,  till  I  see 
The  face  of  Him  who  gave 

His  life  for  thee  and  me. 

Yet,  with  the  setting  sun, 
Come,  now  and  then,  at  eve, 

And  think  of  me  as  one 

For  whom  thou  shouldst  not  grieve  ; 


The  harvest  that  o'erflows  the  vale, 
And  swells,  an  amber  s.a,  between 
The  full-leaved  woods. 

SONG  OF  THE  SOWER,  p.  279. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  SOWER.  279 

Who,  when  the  kind  release 

From  sin  and  suffering  came, 
Passed  to  the  appointed  peace 

In  murmuring  thy  name. 

Leave  at  my  side  a  space, 

Where  thou  shalt  come,  at  last, 
To  find  a  resting-place, 

When  many  years  are  past. 


THE   SONG   OF   THE   SOWER. 


THE  maples  redden  in  the  sun  ; 

In  autumn  gold  the  beeches  stand ; 
Rest,  faithful  plough,  thy  work  is  done 

Upon  the  teeming  land. 
Bordered  with  trees  whose  gay  leaves  fly 
O  n  every  breath  that  sweeps  the  sky, 
The  fresh  dark  acres  furrowed  lie,  » 

And  ask  the  sower's  hand. 
Loose  the  tired  steer  and  let  him  go 
To  pasture  where  the  gentians  blow, 
And  we,  who  till  the  grateful  ground, 
Fling  we  the  golden  shower  around. 

II. 

Fling  wide  the  generous  grain ;  we  fling 
O'er  the  dark  mould  the  green  of  spring. 
For  thick  the  emerald  blades  shall  grow, 
When  first  the  March  winds  melt  the  snow, 


28o  LATER  POEMS. 

And  to  the  sleeping  flowers,  below, 

The  early  bluebirds  sing. 
Fling  wide  the  grain  ;  we  give  the  fields 

The  ears  that  nod  in  summer's  gale, 
The  shining  stems  that  summer  gilds, 

The  harvest  that  o'erflows  the  vale, 
And  swells,  an  amber  sea,  between 
The  full-leaved  woods,  its  shores  of  green. 
Hark !  from  the  murmuring  clods  I  hear 
Glad  voices  of  the  coming  year  ; 
The  song  of  him  who  binds  the  grain, 
The  shout  of  those  that  load  the  wain, 
And  from  the  distant  grange  there  comes 

The  clatter  of  the  thresher's  flail, 
And  steadily  the  millstone  hums 

Down  in  the  willowy  vale. 

in. 

Fling  wide  the  golden  shower ;  we  trust 
The  strength  of  armies  to  the  dust. 
This  peaceful  lea  may  haply  yield 
*      Its  harvest  for  the  tented  field. 
Ha  !  feel  ye  not  your  fingers  thrill, 

As  o'er  them,  in  the  yellow  grains, 
Glide  the  warm  drops  of  blood  that  fill, 

For  mortal  strife,  the  warrior's  veins  ; 
Such  as,  on  Solferino's  day, 
Slaked  the  brown  sand  and  flowed  away ; — 
Flowed  till  the  herds,  on  Mincio's  brink, 
Snuffed  the  red  stream  and  feared  to  drink  ;- 
Blood  that  in  deeper  pools  shall  lie, 

On  the  sad  earth,  as  time  grows  gray, 
When  men  by  deadlier  arts  shall  die, 


THE  SONG   OF  THE   SOWER.  283 

For  even  now  I  seem 
To  hear  a  sound  that  lightly  rings 
From  murmuring  harp  and  viol's  strings, 

As  in  a  summer  dream. 
The  welcome  of  the  wedding-guest, 

The  bridegroom's  look  of  bashful  pride, 

The  faint  smile  of  the  pallid  bride, 
And  bridemaid's  blush  at  matron's  jest, 
And  dance  and  song  and  generous  dower 
Are  in  the  shining  grains  we  shower. 


VII. 

Scatter  the  wheat  for  shipwrecked  men, 
Who,  hunger- worn,  rejoice  again 

In  the  sweet  safety  of  the  shore, 
And  wanderers,  lost  in  woodlands  drear, 
Whose  pulses  bound  with  joy  to  hear 

The  herd's  light  bell  once  more. 

Freely  the  golden  spray  be  shed 
For  him  whose  heart,  when  night  comes  down 
On  the  close  alleys  of  the  town, 

Is  faint  for  lack  of  bread, 
In  chill  roof-chambers,  bleak  and  bare, 
Or  the  damp  cellar's  stifling  air, 
She  who  now  sees,  in  mute  despair, 

Her  children  pine  for  food, 
Shall  feel  the  dews  of  gladness  start 
To  lids  long  tearless,  and  shall  part 
The  sweet  loaf  with  a  grateful  heart, 

Among  her  thin  pale  brood. 
Dear,  kindly  Earth,  whose  breast  we  till ! 
Oh,  for  thy  famished  children,  fill, 
WThere'er  the  sower  walks, 


LATER  POEMS. 

Fill  the  rich  ears  that  shade  the  mould 
With  grain  for  grain,  a  hundredfold, 
To  bend  the  sturdy  stalks. 

VIII. 

Strew  silently  the  fruitful  seed, 

As  softly  o'er  the  tilth  ye  tread, 
For  hands  that  delicately  knead 

The  consecrated  bread — 
The  mystic  loaf  that  crowns  the  board, 
When,  round  the  table  of  their  Lord, 

Within  a  thousand  temples  set, 
In  memory  of  the  bitter  death 
Of  Him  who  taught  at  Nazareth, 

His  followers  are  met, 
And'  thoughtful  eyes  with  tears  are  wet, 

As  of  the  Holy  One  they  think, 
The  glory  of  whose  rising,  yet 

Makes  bright  the  grave's  mysterious  brink. 

IX. 

Brethren,  the  sower's  task  is  done. 
The  seed  is  in  its  winter  bed. 
Now  let  the  dark-brown  mould  be  spread, 

To  hide  it  from  the  sun, 
And  leave  it  to  the  kindly  care 
Of  the  still  earth  and  brooding  air, 
As  when  the  mother,  from  her  breast, 
Lays  the  hushed  babe  apart  to  rest, 
And  shades  its  eyes,  and  waits  to  see 
How  sweet  its  waking  smile  will  be. 
The  tempest  now  may  smite,  the  sleet 
All  night  or  the  drowned  furrow  beat, 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  SOWER. 

And  winds  that,  from  the  cloudy  hold, 
Of  winter  breathe  the  bitter  cold, 
Stiffen  to  stone  the  mellow  mould, 

Yet  safe  shall  lie  the  wheat ; 
Till,  out  of  heaven's  unmeasured  blue, 

Shall  walk  again  the  genial  year, 
To  wake  with  warmth  and  nurse  with  dc^v 

The  germs  we  lay  to  slumber  here. 


x. 

Oh  blessed  harvest  yet  to  be! 

Abide  thou  with  the  Love  that  keeps, 
In  its  warm  bosom,  tenderly, 

The  Life  which  wakes  and  that  which  sleeps. 
The  Love  that  leads  the  willing  spheres 
Along  the  unending  track  of  years 
And  watches  o'er  the  sparrow's  nest, 
Shall  brood  above  thy  winter  rest, 
And  raise  thee  from  the  dust,  to  hold 

Light  whisperings  with  the  winds  of  May,     ' 
And  fill  thy  spikes  with  living  gold, 

From  summer's  yellow  ray ; 
Then,  as  thy  garners  give  thee  forth, 

On  what  glad  errands  shalt  thou  go, 
Wherever,  o'er  the  waiting  earth, 

Roads  wind  and  rivers  flow  ! 
The  ancient  East  shall  welcome  thee 
To  mighty  marts  beyond  the  sea, 
And  they  who  dwell  where  palm-groves  sound 
To  summer  winds  the  whole  year  round, 
Shall  watch,  in  gladness,  from  the  shore, 
The  sails  that  bring  thy  glistening  store. 


285 


286  LATER  PGEMS. 


THE   NEW   AND   THE   OLD. 

NEW  are  the  leaves  on  the  oaken  spray, 
New  the  blades  of  the  silky  grass  ; 

Flowers,  that  were  buds  but  yesterday, 
Peep  from  the  ground  where'er  I  pass. 

These  gay  idlers,  the  butterflies, 

Broke,  to-day,  from  their  winter  shroud  ; 

These  light  airs,  that  winnow  the  skies, 
Blow,  just  born,  from  the  soft,  white  cloud. 

Gushing  fresh  in  the  little  streams, 
What  a  prattle  the  waters  make  ! 

Even  the  sun,  with  his  tender  beams, 

Seems  as  young  as  the  flowers  they  wake. 

Children  are  wading,  with  cheerful  cries, 
In  the  shoals  of  the  sparkling  brook, 

Laughing  maidens,  with  soft,  young  eye  3, 
Walk  or  sit  in  the  shady  nook. 

WTiat  am  I  doing,  thus  alone, 

In  the  glory  of  Nature  here, 
Silver-haired,  like  a  snow-flake  thrown 

On  the  greens  of  the  springing  year  ? 

Only  for  brows  unploughed  by  care, 
Eyes  that  glisten  with  hope  and  mirth, 

Cheeks  unwrinkled,  and  unblanched  hair, 
Shines  this  holiday  of  the  earth. 


THE  CLOUD   ON  THE    WAY.  287 

Under  the  grass,  with  the  clammy  clay, 

Lie  in  darkness  the  last  year's  flowers, 
Born  of  a  light  that  has  passed  away, 

Dews  long  dried  and  forgotten  showers. 

"  Under  the  grass  is  the  fitting  home," 

So  they  whisper,  "for  such  as  thou, 
When  the  winter  of  life  is  come, 

Chilling  the  blood,  and  frosting  the  brow." 


THE   CLOUD   ON   THE  WAY. 

SEE  before  us,  in  our  journey,  broods  a  mist  upon  the  ground; 
Thither  leads  the  path  we  walk  in,  blending  with  that  gloomy 

bound. 

Never  eye  hath  pierced  its  shadows  to  the  mystery  they  screen  ; 
Those  who  once  have  passed  within  it  never  more  on  earth  are 

seen. 

Now  it  seems  to  stoop  beside  us,  now  at  seeming  distance  lowers, 
Leaving  banks  that  tempt  us  onward  bright  with  summer-green 

and  flowers. 

Yet  it  blots  the  way  forever ;  there  our  journey  ends  at  last ; 
Into  that  dark  cloud  we  enter,  and  are  gathered  to  the  past. 
Thou  who,  in  this  flinty  pathway,  leading  through  a  stranger-land, 
Passest  down  the  rocky  valley,  walking  with  me  hand  in  hand, 
Which  of  us  shall  be  the  soonest  folded  to  that  dim  Unknown  ? 
Which  shall  leave  the  other  walking  in  this  flinty  path  alone  ? 
Even  now  I  see  thee  shudder,  and  thy  cheek  is  white  with  fear, 
And  thou  clingest  to  my  side  as  comes  that  darkness  sweeping 

near. 
"  Here,"  thou  sayst,  "the  path  is  rugged,  sown  with  thorns  that 

wound  the  feet ; 


288  LATER  POEMS. 

But  the  sheltered  glens  are  lovely,  and  the  rivulet's  song  is  sweet ; 

Roses  breathe  from  tangled  thickets ;  lilies  bend  from  ledges 
brown ; 

Pleasantly  between  the  pelting  showers  the  sunshine  gushes  down  ; 

Dear  are  those  who  walk  beside  us,  they  whose  looks  and  voices 
make 

All  this  rugged  region  cheerful,  till  I  love  it  for  their  sake. 

Far  be  yet  the  hour  that  takes  me  where  that  chilly  shadow  lies, 

From  the  things  I  know  and  love,  and  from  the  sight  of  loving 
eyes !  " 

So  thou  murmurest,  fearful  one ;  but  see,  we  tread  a  rougher  way ; 

Fainter  glow  the  gleams  of  sunshine  that  upon  the  dark  rocks  play ; 

Rude  winds  strew  the  faded  flowers  upon  the  crags  o'er  which  we 
pass; 

Banks  of  verdure,  when  we  reach  them,  hiss  with  tufts  of  withered 
grass. 

One  by  one  we  miss  the  voices  which  we  loved  so  well  to  hear ; 

One  by  one  the  kindly  faces  in  that  shadow  disappear. 

Yet  upon  the  mist  before  us  fix  thine  eyes  with  closer  view ; 

See,  beneath  its  sullen  skirts,  the  rosy  morning  glimmers  through. 

One  whose  feet  the  thorns  have  wounded  passed  that  barrier  and 
came  back, 

With  a  glory  on  His  footsteps  lighting  yet  the  dreary  track. 

Boldly  enter  where  He  entered ;  all  that  seems  but  darkness  here, 

When  thou  once  hast  passed  beyond  it,  haply  shall  be  crystal- 
clear. 

Viewed  from  that  serener  realm,  the  walks  of  human  life  may  lie, 

Like  the  page  of  some  familiar  volume,  open  to  thine  eye ; 

Haply,  from  the  o'erhanging  shadow,  thou  mayst  stretch  an  un 
seen  hand, 

To  support  the  wavering  steps  that  print  with  blood  the  rugged 
land. 

Haply,  leaning  o'er  the  pilgrim,  all  unweeting  thou  art  near, 

Thou  mayst  whisper  words  of  warning  or  of  comfort  in  his  ear, 


THE   TIDES.  289 

Till,  beyond  the  border  where  that  brooding  mystery  bars  the 

sight, 
Those  whom  thou  hast  fondly  cherished  stand  with  thee  in  peace 

and  light. 


THE   TIDES. 

THE  moon  is  at  her  full,  and,  riding  high, 

Floods  the  calm  fields  with  light ; 
The  airs  that  hover  in  the  summer-sky 

Are  all  asleep  to-night. 

There  conies  no  voice  from  the  great  woodlands  round 

That  murmured  all  the  day  ; 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  their  boughs  the  ground 

Is  not  more  still  than  they. 

But  ever  heaves  and  moans  the  restless  Deep ; 

His  rising  tides  I  hear, 
Afar  I  see  the  glimmering  billows  leap  ; 

I  see  them  breaking  near. 

Each  wave  springs  upward,  climbing  toward  the  fair 

Pure  light  that  sits  on  high — 
Springs  eagerly,  and  faintly  sinks,  to  where 

The  mother-waters  lie. 

Upward  again  it  swells ;  the  moonbeams  show 

Again  its  glimmering  crest ; 
Again  it  feels  the  fatal  weight  below, . 

And  sinks,  but  not  to  rest. 

25 


LATER  POEMS. 

Again  and  yet  again ;  until  the  Deep 

Recalls  his  brood  of  waves  ; 
And,  with  a  sullen  moan,  abashed,  they  creep 

Back  to  his  inner  caves. 

Brief  respite  !  they  shall  rush  from  that  recess 

With  noise  and  tumult  soon, 
And  fling  themselves,  with  unavailing  stress, 

Up  toward  the  placid  moon. 

O  restless  Sea,  that,  in  thy  prison  here, 

Dost  struggle  and  complain  ; 
Through  the  slow  centuries  yearning  to  be  near 

To  that  fair  orb  in  vain  ; 

The  glorious  source  of  light  and  heat  must  warm 

Thy  billows  from  on  high, 
And  change  them  to  the  cloudy  trains  that  form 

The  curtains  of  the  sky. 

Then  only  may  they  leave  the  waste  of  brine 

In  which  they  welter  here, 
And  rise  above  the  hills  of  earth,  and  shine 

In  a  screner  sphere. 


ITALY. 

VOICES  from  the  mountains  speak, 
Apennines  to  Alps  reply  ; 

Vale  to  >vale  and  peak  to  peak 
Toss  an  old-remembered  cry  : 


ITALY. 

"  Italy 

Shall  be  free  !  " 

.Such  the  mighty  shout  that  fills 
All  the  passes  of  her  hills. 

All  the  old  Italian  lakes 

Quiver  at  that  quickening  word ; 
Como  with  a  thrill  awakes  ; 
Garda  to  her  depths  is  stirred ; 
Mid  the  steeps 
Where  he  sleeps, 
Dreaming  of  the  elder  years, 
Startled  Thrasymenus  hears. 

Sweeping  Arno,  swelling  Po, 

Murmur  freedom  to  their  meads. 
Tiber  swift  and  Liris  slow 

Sand  strange  whispers  from  their  reeds. 
"Italy 

Shall  be  free  !  " 

Sing  the  glittering  brooks  that  slid?, 
Toward  the  sea,  from  Etna's  side. 

Long  ago  was  Gracchus  slain ; 

Brutus  perished  long  ago  ; 
Yet  the  living  roots  remain 

Whence  the  shoots  of  greatness  grow, 
Yet  again, 
Godlike  men, 

Sprung  from  that  heroic  stem, 
Call  the  land  to  rise  with  them. 

They  who  haunt  the  swarming  street, 
They  who  chase  the  mountain-boar, 


LATER  POEMS. 

Or,  where  cliff  and  billow  meet, 
Prune  the  vine  or  pull  the  oar, 

With  a  stroke 

Break  their  yoke ; 
Slaves  but  yestereve  were  they — 
Freemen  with  the  dawning  day. 

Looking  in  his  children's  eyes, 

While  his  own  with  gladness  flash, 
"  These,"  the  Umbrian  father  cries, 
"  Ne'er  shall  crouch  beneath  the  lash  ! 
These  shall  ne'er 
Brook  to  wear 

Chains  whose  cruel  links  are  twined 
Round  the  crushed  and  withering  mind." 

Monarchs  !  ye  whose  armies  stand 

Harnessed  for  the  battle-field  ! 
Pause,  and  from  the  lifted  hand 
Drop  the  bolts  of  war  ye  wield. 
Stand  aloof 
While  the  proof 
Of  the  people's  might  is  given  ; 
Leave  their  kings  to  them  and  Heaven  ! 

Stand  aloof,  and  see  the  oppressed 

Chase  the  oppressor,  pale  with  fear, 
As  the  fresh  winds  of  the  west 
Blow  the  misty  valleys  clear. 
Stand  and  see 
Italy 

Cast  the  gyves  she  wears  no  more 
To  the  gulfs  that  steep  her  shore. 


A   DAY-DREAM.  293 


A    DAY-DREAM. 

A  DAY-DREAM  by  the  dark-blue  deep  ; 

Was  it  a  dream,  or  something  more  ? 
I  sat  where  Posilippo's  steep, 

With  its  gray  shelves,  o'erhung  the  shore. 

On  ruined  Roman  walls  around 

The  poppy  flaunted,  for  'twas  May; 
And  at  my  feet,  with  gentle  sound, 

Broke  the  light  billows  of  the  bay. 

I  sat  and  watched  the  eternal  flow 

Of  those  smooth  billows  toward  the  shore, 

While  quivering  lines  of  light  below 
Ran  with  them  on  the  ocean-floor. 

Till,  from  the  deep,  there  seemed  to  rise 
White  arms  upon  the  waves  outspread, 

Young  faces,  lit  with  soft  blue  eyes, 

And  smooth,  round  cheeks,  just  touched  with  red. 

Their  long,  fair  tresses,  tinged  with  gold, 

Lay  floating  on  the  ocean-streams, 
And  such  their  brows  as  bards  behold — 

Love-stricken  bards — in  morning  dreams. 

Then  moved  their  coral  lips  ;  a  strain 

Low,  sweet,  and  sorrowful,  I  heard, 
As  if  the  murmurs  of  the  main 

Were  shaped  to  syllable  and  word. 


LATER  POEMS. 

"  The  sight  thou  .dimly  dost  behold, 
Oh,  stranger  from  a  distant  sky  ! 

Was  often,  in  the  days  of  old, 
Seen  by  the  clear,  believing  eye. 

"Then  danced  we  on  the  wrinkled  sand, 
Sat  in  cool  caverns  by  the  sea, 

Or  wandered  up  the  bloomy  land, 
To  talk  with  shepherds  on  the  lea. 

"To  us,  in  storms,  the  seaman  prayed, 
And  where  our  rustic  altars  stood, 

His  little  children  came  and  laid 
The  fairest  flowers  of  field  and  wood. 

"  Oh  woe,  a  long,  unending  woe  ! 

For  who  shall  knit  the  ties  again 
That  linked  the  sea-nymphs,  long  ago, 

In  kindly  fellowship  with  men  ? 

"  Earth  rears  her  flowers  for  us  no  more 
A  half-remembered  dream  are  we ; 

Unseen  we  haunt  the  sunny  shore, 
And  swim,  unmarked,  the  glassy  sea. 

"  And  we  have  none  to  love  or  aid, 
But  wander,  heedless  of  mankind, 

With  shadows  by  the  cloud-rack  made, 
With  moaning  wave  and  sighing  wind. 

"Yet  sometimes,  as  in  elder  days, 
We  come  before  the  painter's  eye, 

Or  fix  the  sculptor's  eager  gaze, 
With  no  profaner  witness  nigh. 


THE  RUINS  OF  ITALICA.  295 

"  And  then  the  words  of  men  grow  warm 

With  praise  and  wonder,  asking  where 
The  artist  saw  the  perfect  form 

He  copied  forth  in  lines  so  fair." 

As  thus  they  spoke,  with  wavering  sweep 

Floated  the  graceful  forms  away ; 
Dimmer  and  dimmer,  through  the  deep, 

I  saw  the  white  arms  gleam  and  play. 

Fainter  and  fainter,  on  mine  ear, 

Fell  the  soft  accents  of  their  speech, 
Till  I,  at  last,  could  only  hear 

The  waves  run  murmuring  up  the  beach. 


THE    RUINS    OF   ITALICA. 

FROM  THE   SPANISH  OF   RIOJA. 


FABIUS,  this  region,  desolate  and  drear, 
These  solitary  fields,  this  shapeless  mound, 
Were  once  Italica,  the  far-renowned ; 
For  Scipio,  the  mighty,  planted  here 
His  conquering  colony,  and  now,  o'erthrown, 
Lie  its  once-dreaded  walls  of  massive  stone. 
Sad  relics,  sad  and  vain, 
Of  those  invincible  men 
Who  held  the  region  then. 


2g6  LATER  POEMS. 

Funereal  memories  alone  remain 

Where  forms  of  high  example  walked  of  yore. 
Here  lay  the  forum,  there  arose  the  fane — 

The  eye  beholds  their  places,  and  no  more. 
Their  proud  gymnasium  and  their  sumptuous  baths, 
Resolved  to  dust  and  cinders,  strew  the  paths ; 
Their  towers,  that  looked  defiance  at  the  sky, 
Fallen  by  their  own  vast  weight,  in  fragments  lie. 

II. 

This  broken  circus,  where  the  rock-weeds  climb, 
Flaunting  with  yellow  blossoms,  and  defy 
The  gods  to  whom  its  walls  were  piled  so  high, 

Is  now  a  tragic  theatre,  where  Time 

Acts  his  great  fable,  spreads  a  stage  that  shows 

Past  grandeur's  story  and  its  dreary  close. 
Why,  round  this  desert  pit, 
Shout  not  the  applauding  rows 
Where  the  great  people  sit  ? 

Wild  beasts  are  here,  but  where  the  combatan  ; 
With  his  bare  arms,  the  strong  athleta  where  ? 

All  have  departed  from  this  once  gay  haunt 
Of  noisy  crowds,  and  silence  holds  the  air. 

Yet,  on  this  spot,  Time  gives  us  to  behold 

A  spectacle  as  stern  as  those  of  old. 

As  dreamily  I  gaze,  there  seem  to  rise, 

From  all  the  mighty  ruin,  wailing  cries. 

Hi. 

The  terrible  in  war,  the  pride  of  Spain, 

Trajan,  his  country's  father,  here  was  born ; 

Good,  fortunate,  triumphant,  to  whose  reign 
Submitted  tae  far  regions,  where  the  morn 


THE  RUINS  OF  ITALIC  A. 

Rose  from  her  cradle,  and  the  shore  whose  steeps 
O'erlooked  the  conquered  Gaditanian  deeps. 

Of  mighty  Adrian  here, 

Of  Theodosius,  saint, 

Of  Silius,  Virgil's  peer, 

Were  rocked  the  cradles,  rich  with  gold,  and  quaint 
With  ivory  carvings  ;  here  were  laurel-boughs 
And  sprays  of  jasmine  gathered  for  their  brows, 

From  gardens  now  a  marshy,  thorny  waste. 
Where  rose  the  palace,  reared  for  Csesar,  yawn 
Foul  rifts  to  which  the  scudding  lizards  haste. 
Palaces,  gardens,  Caesars,  all  are  gone, 
And  even  the  stones  their  names  were  graven  on. 


IV. 


Fabius,  if  tears  prevent  thee  not,  survey 

The  long-dismantled  streets,  so  thronged  of  old, 

The  broken  marbles,  arches  in  decay, 

Proud  statues,  toppled  from  their  place  and  rolled 

In  dust,  when  Nemesis,  the  avenger,  came, 
And  buried,  in  forgetfulness  profound, 
The  owners  and  their  fame.. 
Thus  Troy,  I  deem,  must  be, 
'  With  many  a  mouldering  mound ; 

And  thou,  whose  name  alone  remains  to  thee, 

Rome,  of  old  gods  and  kings  the  native  ground ; 

And  thou,  sage  Athens,  built  by  Pallas,  whom 

Just  laws  redeemed  not  from  the  appointed  doom. 

The  envy  of  earth's  cities  once  wert  thou — 

A  weary  solitude  and  ashes  now ! 

For  Fate  and  Death  respect  ye  not :  they  strike 

The  mighty  city  and  the  wise  alike. 


297 


293  LATER  POEMS. 

-  v. 

But  why  goes  forth  the  wandering  thought  to  frame 
New  themes  of  sorrow,  sought  in  distant  lands  ? 
Enough  the  example  that  before  me  stands ; 

For  here  are  smoke-wreaths  seen,  and  glimmering  flame, 

And  hoarse  lamentings  on  the  breezes  die  ; 

So  doth  the  mighty  ruin  cast  its  spell 
On  those  who  near  it  dwell. 
And  under  night's  still  sky, 
As  awe-struck  peasants  tell, 

A  melancholy  voice  is  heard  to  cry, 
"Italica  is  fallen !  "  the  echoes  then 
Mournfully  shout  "Italica"  again. 

The  leafy  alleys  of  the  forest  nigh 
Murmur  "Italica,"  and  allaround, 
A  troop  of  mighty  shadows,  at  the  sound 

Of  that  illustrious  name,  repeat  the  call, 

"  Italica !  "  from  ruined  tower  and  wall. 


WAITING   BY   THE   GATE. 

BESIDE  a  massive  gateway  built  up  in  years  gone  by, 
Upon  whose  top  the  clouds  in  eternal  shadow  lie, 
While  streams  the  evening  sunshine  on  quiet  wood  and  lea, 
I  stand  and  calmly  wait  till  the  hinges  turn  for  me. 

The  tree-tops  faintly  rustle  beneath  the  breeze's  flight, 
A  soft  and  soothing  sound,  yet  it  whispers  of  the  night ; 
I  hear  the  wood-thrush  piping  one  mellow  descant  more, 
And  scent  the  flowers  that  blow  when  the  heat  of  day  is  o'er. 


WAITING  BY  THE   GATE.  299 

Behold,  the  portals  open,  and  o'er  the  threshold,  now, 
There  steps  a  weary  one  with  a  pale  and  furrowed  brow ; 
His  count  of  years  is  full,  his  allotted  task  is  wrought ; 
He  passes  to  his  rest  from  a  place  that  needs  him  not. 

In  sadness  then  I  ponder  how  quickly  fleets  the  hour 
Of  human  strength  and  action,  man's  courage  and  his  power. 
I  muse  while  still  the  wood-thrush  sings  down  the  golden  day, 
And  as  I  look  and  listen  the  sadness  wears  away. 

Again  the  hinges  turn,  and  a  youth,  departing,  throws 
A  look  of  longing  backward,  and  sorrowfully  goes ; 
A  blooming  maid,  unbinding  the  roses  from  her  hair, 
Moves  mournfully  away  from  amid  the  young  and  fair. 

O  glory  of  our  race  that  so  suddenly  decays  ! 

O  crimson  flush  of  morning  that  darkens  as  we  gaze ! 

0  breath  of  summer  blossoms  that  on  the  restless  air 
Scatters  a  moment's  sweetness,  and  flies  we  know  not  where  ! 

1  grieve  for  life's  bright  promise,  just  shown  and  then  withdrawn  ; 
But  still  the  sun  shines  round  me :  the  evening  bird  sings  on, 
And  I  again  am  soothed,  and,  beside  the  ancient  gate, 

In  this  soft  evening  sunlight,  I  calmly  stand  and  wait. 

Once  more  the  gates  are  opened ;  an  infant  group  go  out, 

The  sweet  smile  quenched  forever,  and  stilled  the  sprightly  shout. 

O  frail,  frail  tree  of  Life,  that  upon  the  greensward  strows 

Its  fair  young  buds  unopened,  with  every  wind  that  blows  ! 

So  come  from  every  region,  so  enter,  side  by  side, 
The  strong  and  faint  of  spirit,  the  meek  and  men  of  pride. 
Steps  of  earth's  great  and  mighty,  between  those  pillars  gray, 
And  prints  of  little  feet,  mark  the  dust  along  the  way. 


300  LATER  POEMS. 

And  some  approach  the  threshold  whose  looks  are  blank  with  fear, 
And  some  whose  temples  brighten  with  joy  in  drawing  near, 
As  if  they  saw  dear  faces,  and  caught  the  gracious  eye 
Of  Him,  the  Sinless  Teacher,  who  came  for  us  to  die. 

I  mark  the  joy,  the  terror;  yet  these,  within  my  heart, 
Can  neither  wake  the  dread  nor  the  longing  to  depart ; 
And,  in  the  sunshine  streaming  on  quiet  wood  and  lea, 
I  stand  and  calmly  wait  till  the  hinges  turn  for  me. 


NOT   YET. 

OH  COUNTRY,  marvel  of  the  earth  ! 

Oh  realm  to  sudden  greatness  grown  ! 
The  age  that  gloried  in  thy  birth, 

Shall  it  behold  thee  overthrown  ? 
Shall  traitors  lay  that  greatness  low  ? 
No,  land  of  Hope  and  Blessing,  No ! 

And  we,  who  wear  thy  glorious  name, 
Shall  we,  like  cravens,  stand  apart, 

When  those  whom  thou  hast  trusted  aim 
The  death-blow  at  thy  generous  heart  ? 

Forth  goes  the  battle-cry,  and  lo ! 

Hosts  rise  in  harness,  shouting,  No  ! 

And  they  who  founded,  in  our  land, 
The  power  that  rules  from  sea  to  sea, 

Bled  they  in  vain,  or  vainly  planned 
To  leave  their  country  great  and  free  ? 


NOT   YET.  301 

Their  sleeping  ashes,  from  below, 
Send  up  the  thrilling  murmur,  No  ! 

Knit  they  the  gentle  ties  which  long 
These  sister  States  were  proud  to  wear, 

And  forged  the  kindly  links  so  strong 
For  idle  hands  in  sport  to  tear  ? 

For  scornful  hands  aside  to  throw  ? 

No,  by  our  fathers'  memory,  No  ! 

Our  humming  marts,  our  iron  ways, 
Our  wind-tossed  woods  on  mountain-crest, 

The  hoarse  Atlantic,  with  its  bays, 
The  calm,  broad  Ocean  of  the  West, 

And  Mississippi's  torrent-flow, 

And  loud  Niagara,  answer,  No  \ 

Not  yet  the  hour  is  nigh  when  they 

Who  deep  in  Eld's  dim  twilight  sit, 
Earth's  ancient  kings,  shall  rise  and  say, 

"  Proud  country,  welcome  to  the  pit ! 
So  soon  art  thou,  like  us,  brought  low  !  " 
No,  sullen  group  of  shadows,  No ! 

For  now,  behold,  the  arm  that  gave 
The  victory  in  our  fathers'  day, 

Strong,  as  of  old,  to  guard  and  save- 
That  mighty  arm  which  none  can  stay — 

On  clouds  above  and  fields  below, 

Writes,  in  men's  sight,  the  answer,  No  ! 
July,  1861. 


302  LATER  POEMS. 


OUR  COUNTRY'S   CALL. 

LAY  down  the  axe ;  fling  by  the  spade  ; 

Leave  in  its  track  the  toiling  plough  ; 
The  rifle  and  the  bayonet-blade 

For  arms  like  yours  were  fitter  now  ; 
And  let  the  hands  that  ply  the  pen 

Quit  the  light  task,  and  learn  to  wield 
The  horseman's  crooked  brand,  and  rein 

The  charger  on  the  battle-field. 

Our  country  calls ;  away  !  away  ! 

To  where  the  blood-stream  blots  the  green. 
Strike  to  defend  the  gentlest  sway 

That  Time  in  all  his  course  has  seen. 
See,  from  a  thousand  coverts — see, 

Spring  the  armed  foes  that  haunt  her  track  ; 
They  rush  to  smite  her  down,  and  we 

Must  beat  the  banded  traitors  back. 

Ho  !  sturdy  as  the  oaks  ye  cleave, 

And  moved  as  soon  to  fear  and  flight, 
Men  of  the  glade  and  forest !  leave 

Your  woodcraft  for  the  field  cf  fight. 
The  arms  that  wield  the  axe  must  pour 

An  iron  tempest  on  the  foe ; 
His  serried  ranks  shall  reel  before 

The  arm  that  lays  the  panther  low. 

And  ye,  who  breast  the  mountain-storm 
By  grassy  steep  or  highland  lake, 

Come,  for  the  land  ye  love,  to  form 
A  bulwark  that  no  foe  can  break. 


OUR  COUNTRY'S  CALL.  303 

Stand,  like  your  own  gray  cliffs  that  mock 

The  whirlwind,  stand  in  her  defence  ; 
The  blast  as  soon  shall  move  the  rock 

As  rushing  squadrons  bear  ye  thence. 

And  ye,  whose  homes  are  by  her  grand 

Swift  rivers,  rising  far  away, 
Come  from  the  depth  of  her  green  land, 

As  mighty  in  your  march  as  they  ; 
As  terrible  as  when  the  rains 

Have  swelled  them  over  bank  and  bourne, 
*    With  sudden  floods  to  drown  the  plains 

And  sweep  along  the  woods  uptorn. 

And  ye,  who  throng,  beside  the  deep, 

Her  ports  and  hamlets  of  the  strand, 
In  number  like  the  waves  that  leap 

On  his  long-murmuring  marge  of  sand — 
Come  like  that  deep,  when,  o'er  his  brim, 

He  rises,  all  his  floods  to  pour, 
And  flings  the  proudest  barks  that  swim, 

A  helpless  wreck,  against  his  shore ! 

Few,  few  were  they  whose  swords  of  old 
Won  the  fair  land  in  which  we  dwell ; 
But  we  are  many,  we  who  hold 

The  grim  resolve  to  guard  it  well. 
,    Strike,  for  that  broad  and  goodly  land, 

Blow  after  blow,  till  men  shall  see 
That  Might  and  Right  move  hand  in  hand, 

And  glorious  must  their  triumph  be  ! 
September,  1861. 


3°4 


LATER  POEMS. 


THE   CONSTELLATIONS. 

O  CONSTELLATIONS  of  the  early  night, 

That  sparkled  brighter  as  the  twilight  died, 

And  made  the  darkness  glorious  !    I  have  seen 

Your  rays  grow  dim  upon  the  horizon's  edge, 

And  sink  behind  the  mountains.     I  have  seen 

The  great  Orion,  with  his  jewelled  belt, 

That  large-limbed  warrior  of  the  skies,  go  down 

Into  the  gloom.     Beside  him  sank  a  crowd 

Of  shining  ones.     I  look  in  vain  to  find 

The  group  of  sister-stars,  which  mothers  love 

To  show  their  wondering  babes,  the  gentle  Seven. 

Along  the  desert  space  mine  eyes  in  vain 

Seek  the  resplendent  cressets  which  the  Twins 

Uplifted  in  their  ever-youthful  hands. 

The  streaming  tresses  of  the  Egyptian  Queen 

Spangle  the  heavens  no  more.     The  Virgin  trails 

No  more  her  glittering  garments  through  the  blue. 

Gone !  all  are  gone !  and  the  forsaken  Night, 

With  all  her  winds,  in  all  her  dreary  wastes, 

Sighs  that  they  shine  upon  her  face  no  more. 

Now  only  here  and  there  a  little  star 
Looks  forth  alone.     Ah  me  !  I  know  them  not, 
Those  dim  successors  of  the  numberless  host 
That  filled  the  heavenly  fields,  and  flung  to  earth 
Their  quivering  fires.     And  now  the  middle  watch 
Betwixt  the  eve  and  morn  is  past,  and  still 
The  darkness  gains  upon  the  sky,  and  still 
It  closes  round  my  way.     Shall,  then,  the  Night, 
Grow  starless  in  her  later  hours  ?     Have  these 
No  train  of  flaming  watchers,  that  shall  mark 


THE  CONSTELLATIONS.  305 

Their  coming  and  farewell  ?     O  Sons  of  Light ! 
Have  ye  then  left  me  ere  the  dawn  of  day 
To  grope  along  my  journey  sad  and  faint  ? 

Thus  I  complained,  and  from  the  darkness  round 
A  voice  replied — was  it  indeed  a  voice, 
Or  seeming  accents  of  a_waking  dream 
Heard  by  the  inner  ear  ?     But  thus  it  said : 
O  Traveller  of  the  Night !  thine  eyes  are  dim 
With  watching ;  and  the  mists,  that  chill  the  vale 
Down  which  thy  feet  are  passing,  hide  from  view 
The  ever-burning  stars.     It  is  thy  sight 
That  is  so  dark,  and  not  the  heavens.     Thine  eyes, 
Were  they  but  clear,  would  see  a  fiery  host 
Above  thee ;  Hercules,  with  flashing  mace, 
The  Lyre  with  silver  chords,  the  Swan  uppoised 
On  gleaming  wings,  the  Dolphin  gliding  on 
With  glistening  scales,  and  that  poetic  steed, 
With  beamy  mane,  whose  hoof  struck  out  from  earth 
The  fount  of  Hippocrene,  and  many  more, 
Fair  clustered  splendors,  with  whose  rays  the  Night 
Shall  close  her  march  in  glory,  ere  she  yield, 
To  the  young  Day,  the  great  earth  steeped  in  dew. 

So  spake  the  monitor,  and  I  perceived 
How  vain  were  my  repinings,  and  my  thought 
Went  backward  to  the  vanished  years  and  all 
The  good  and  great  who  came  and  passed  with  them, 
And  knew  that  ever  would  the  years  to  come 
Bring  with  them,  in  their  course,  the  good  and  great, 
Lights  of  the  world,  though,  to  my  clouded  sight, 
Their  rays  might  seem  but  dim,  or  reach  me  not. 


3o6  LATER  POEMS. 


THE   THIRD   OF   NOVEMBER,   1861. 

SOFTLY  breathes  the  west-wind  beside  the  ruddy  forest 
Taking  leaf  by  leaf  from  the  branches  where  he  flies. 

Sweetly  streams  the  sunshine,  this  third  day  of  November, 
Through  the  golden  haze  of  the  quiet  autumn  skies. 

Tenderly  the  season  has  spared  the  grassy  meadows, 

Spared  the  petted  flowers  that  the  old  world  gave  the  new, 

Spared  the  autumn-rose  and  the  garden's  group  of  pansies, 
Late-blown  dandelions  and  periwinkles  blue. 

On  my  cornice  linger  the  ripe  black  grapes  ungathered ; 

Children  fill  the  groves  with  the  echoes  of  their  glee, 
Gathering  tawny  chestnuts,  and  shouting  when  beside  them 

Drops  the  heavy  fruit  of  the  tall  black-walnut  tree. 

Glorious  are  the  woods  in  their  latest  gold  and  crimson, 
Yet  our  full-leaved  willows  are  in  their  freshest  green. 

Such  a  kindly  autumn,  so  mercifully  dealing 

With  the  growths  of  summer,  I  never  yet  have  seen. 

Like  this  kindly  season  may  life's  decline  come  o'er  me ; 

Past  is  manhood's  summer,  the  frosty  months  are  here ; 
Yet  be  genial  airs  and  a  pleasant  sunshine  left  me, 

Leaf,  and  fruit,  and  blossom,  to  mark  the  closing  year ! 

Dreary  is  the  time  when  the  flowers  of  earth  are  withered ; 

Dreary  is  the  time  when  the  woodland  leaves  are  cast — 
When,  upon  the  hillside,  all  hardened  into  iron, 

Howling,  like  a  \\  olf,  flies  the  famished  northern  blast. 


THE  MOTHER'S  HYMN. 

Dreary  are  the  years  when  the  eye  can  look  no  longer 
With  delight  on  Nature,  or  hope  on  human  kind ; 

Oh,  may  those  that  whiten  my  temples,  as  they  pass  me, 
Leave  the  heart  unfrozen,  and  spare  the  cheerful  mind  I 


THE   MOTHER'S   HYMN. 

LORD,  who  ordainest  for  mankind 
Benignant  toils  and  tender  cares  ! 

We  thank  Thee  for  the  ties  that  bind 
The  mother  to  the  child  she  bears. 

We  thank  Thee  for  the  hopes  that  rise, 
Within  her  heart,  as,  day  by  day, 

The  dawning  soul,  from  those  young  eyes, 
Looks,  with  a  clearer,  steadier  ray. 

And  grateful  for  the  blessing  given 
With  that  dear  infant  on  her  knee, 

She  trains  the  eye  to  look  to  heaven, 
The  voice  to  lisp  a  prayer  to  Thee. 

Such  thanks  the  blessed  Mary  gave, 
When,  from  her  lap,  the  Holy  Child, 

Sent  from  on  high  to  seek  and  save 
The  lost  of  earth,  looked  up  and  smiled. 

All-Gracious  !  grant,  to  those  who  bear 
A  mother's  charge,  the  strength  and  light 

To  lead  the  steps  that  own  their  care 
In  ways  of  Love,  and  Truth,  and  Right. 


307 


308  LATER  POEMS. 


SELLA. 

HEAR  now  a  legend  of  the  days  of  old — 
The  days  when  there  were  goodly  marvels  yet, 
When  man  to  man  gave  willing  faith,  and  loved 
A  tale  the  better  that  'twas  wild  and  strange. 

Beside  a  pleasant  dwelling  ran  a  brook 
Scudding  along  a  narrow  channel,  paved 
With  green  and  yellow  pebbles ;  yet  full  clear 
Its  waters  were,  and  colorless  and  cool, 
As  fresh  from  granite  rocks,     A  maiden  oft 
Stood  at  the  open  window,  leaning  out, 
And  listening  to  the  sound  the  water  made, 
A  sweet,  eternal  murmur,  still  the  same, . 
And  not  the  same ;  and  oft,  as  spring  came  on, 
She  gathered  violets  from  its  fresh  moist  bank, 
To  place  within  her  bower,  and  when  the  herbs 
Of  summer  drooped  beneath  the  mid-day  sun, 
She  sat  within  the  shade  of  a  great  rock, 
Preamily  listening  to  the  streamlet's  song. 

Ripe  were  the  maiden's  years ;  her  stature  showed 
Womanly  beauty,  and  her  clear,  calm  eye 
Was  bright  with  venturous  spirit,  yet  her  face 
Was  passionless,  like  those  by  sculptor  graved 
For  niches  in  a  temple.    Lovers  oft 
Had  wooed  her,  but  she  only  laughed  at  love, 
And  wondered  at  the  silly  things  they  said. 
'Twas  her  delight  to  wander  where  wild-vines 
O'erhang  the  river's  brim,  to  climb  the  path 
Of  woodland  streamlet  to  its  mountain-springs, 
To  sit  by  gleaming  wells  and  mark  below 
The  image  of  the  rushes  on  its  edge, 


SELL  A. 

And,  deep  beyond,  the  trailing  clouds  that  slid 

Across  the  fair  blue  space.     No  little  fount 

Stole  forth  from  hanging  rock,  or  in  the  side 

Of  hollow  dell,  or  under  roots  of  oak ; 

No  rill  came  trickling,  with  a  stripe  of  green, 

Down  the  bare  hill,  that  to  this  maiden's  eye 

Was  not  familiar.     Often  did  the  banks 

Of  river  or  of  sylvan  lakelet  hear 

The  dip  of  oars  with  which  the  maiden  rowed 

Her  shallop,  pushing  ever  from  the  prow 

A  crowd  of  long,  light  ripples  toward  the  shore. 

Two  brothers  had  the  maiden,  and  she  thought, 
Within  herself:  "  I  would  I  were  like  them ; 
For  then  I  might  go  forth  alone,  to  trace 
The  mighty  rivers  downward  to  the  sea, 
And  upward  to  the  brooks  that,  through  the  year, 
Prattle  to  the  cool  valleys.     I  would  know 
What  races  drink  their  waters ;  how  their  chiefs 
Bear  rule,  and  how  men  worship  there,  and  how 
They  build,  and  to  what  quaint  device  they  frame, 
Where  sea  and  river  meet,  their  stately  ships  ; 
What  flowers  are  in  their  gardens,  and  what  trees 
Bear  fruit  within  their  orchards ;  in  what  garb 
Their  bowmen  meet  on  holidays,  and  how 
Their  maidens  bind  the  waist  and  braid  the  hair. 
Here,  on  these  hills,  my  father's  house  o'erlooks 
Broad  pastures  grazed  by  flocks  and  herds,  but  there 
I  hear  they  sprinkle  the  great  plains  with  corn 
And  watch  its  springing  up,  and  when  the  green 
Is  changed  to  gold,  they  cut  the  stems  and  bring 
The  harvest  in,  and  give  the  nations  bread. 
And  there  they  hew  the  quarry  into  shafts, 
And  pile  up  glorious  temples  from  the  rock, 
And  chisel  the  rude  stones  to  shapes  of  men. 


3io 


LATER  POEMS. 


All  this  I  pine  to  see,  and  would  have  seen, 
But  that  I  am  a  woman,  long  ago." 

Thus  in  her  wanderings  did  the  maiden  dream, 
Until,  at  length,  one  morn  in  early  spring, 
When  all  the  glistening  fields  lay  white  with  frost, 
She  came  half  breathless  where  her  mother  sat : 
"See,  mother  dear,"  she  said,  "what  I  have  found, 
Upon  our  rivulet's  bank ;  two  slippers,  white 
As  the  midwinter  snow,  and  spangled  o'er 
With  twinkling  points,  like  stars,  and  on  the  edge 
My  name  is  wrought  in  silver ;  read,  I  pray, 
Sella,  the  name  thy  mother,  now  in  heaven, 
Gave  at  my  birth ;  and  sure,  they  fit  my  feet !  " 
"A  dainty  pair,"  the  prudent  matron  said, 
"  But  thine  they  are  not.     We  must  lay  them  by 
For  those,  whose  careless  hands  have  left  them  here ; 
Or  haply  they  were  placed  beside  the  brook 
To  be  a  snare.    I  cannot  see  thy  name 
Upon  the  border — only  characters 
Of  mystic  look  and  dim  are  there,  like  signs 
Of  some  strange  art;  nay,  daughter,  wear  them  not." 

Then  Sella  hung  the  slippers  in  the  porch 
Of  that  broad  rustic  lodge,  and  all  who  passed 
Admired  their  fair  contexture,  but  none  knew 
Who  left  them  by  the  brook.    And  now,  at  length, 
May,  with  her  flowers  and  singing  birds,  had  gone, 
And  on  bright  streams  and  into  deep  wells  shone 
The  high,  midsummer  sun.     One  day,  at  noon, 
Sella  was  missed  from  the  accustomed  meal. 
They  sought  her  in  her  favorite  haunts,  they  looked 
By  the  great  rock  and  far  along  the  stream, 
And  shouted  in  the  sounding  woods  her  name. 
Night  came,  and  forth  the  sorrowing  household  went 
With  torches  over  the  wide  pasture-grounds 


SELL  A. 

To  pool  and  thicket,  marsh  and  briery  dell, 

And  solitary  valley  far  away. 

The  morning  came,  and  Sella  was  not  found. 

The  sun  climbed  high ;  they  sought  her  still ;  the  noon, 

The  hot  and  silent  noon,  heard  Sella's  name, 

Uttered  with  a  despairing  cry,  to  wastes 

O'er  which  the  eagle  hovered.     As  the  sun 

Stooped  toward  the  amber  west  to  bring  the  close 

Of  that  sad  second  day,  and,  with  red  eyes, 

The  mother  sat  within  her  home  alone, 

Sella  was  at  her  side.     A  shriek  of  joy 

Broke  the  sad  silence ;  glad,  warm  tears  were  shed, 

And  words  of  gladness  uttered.     "  Oh,  forgive," 

The  maiden  said,  "  that  I  could  e'er  forget 

Thy  wishes  for  a  moment.     I  just  tried 

The  slippers  on,  amazed  to  see  them  shaped 

So  fairly  to  my  feet,  when,  all  at  once, 

I  felt  my  steps  upborne  and  hurried  on 

Almost  as  if  with  wings.     A  strange  delight, 

Blent  with  a  thrill  of  fear,  o'ermastered  me, 

And,  ere  I  knew,  my  plashing  steps  were  set 

Within  the  rivulet's  pebbly  bed,  and  I 

Was  rushing  down  the  current.     By  my  side 

Tripped  one  as  beautiful  as  ever  looked 

From  white  clouds  in  a  dream ;  and,  as  we  ran, 

She  talked  with  musical  voice  and  sweetly  laughed. 

Gayly  we  leaped  the  crag  and  swam  the  pool, 

And  swept  with  dimpling  eddies  round  the  rock, 

And  glided  between  shady  meadow-banks. 

The  streamlet,  broadening  as  we  went,  became 

A  swelling  river,  and  we  shot  along 

By  stately  towns,  and  under  leaning  masts 

Of  gallant  barks,  nor  lingered  by  the  shore 

Of  blooming  gardens;  onward,  onward  still, 


311 


312 


LATER  POEMS. 

The  same  strong  impulse  bore  me  till,  at  last, 

We  entered  the  great  deep,  and  passed  below 

His  billows,  into  boundless  spaces,  lit 

With  a  green  sunshine.     Here  were  mighty  groves 

Far  down  the  ocean- valleys,  and  between 

Lay  what  might  seem  fair  meadows,  softly  tinged 

With  orange  and  with  crimson.     Here  arose 

Tall  stems,  that,  rooted  in  the  depths  below, 

Swung  idly  with  the  motions  of  the  sea ; 

And  here  were  shrubberies  in  whose  mazy  screen 

The  creatures  of  the  deep  made  haunt.     My  friend 

Named  the  strange  growths,  the  pretty  coralline, 

The  dulse  with  crimson  leaves,  and,  streaming  far, 

Sea-thong  and  sea-lace.     Here  the  tangle  spread 

Its  broad,  thick  fronds,  with  pleasant  bowers  beneath  ; 

And  oft  we  trod  a  waste  of  pearly  sands, 

Spotted  with  rosy  shells,  and  thence  looked  in 

At  caverns  of  the  sea  whose  rock-roofed  halls 

Lay  in  blue  twilight.     As  we  moved  along, 

The  dwellers  of  the  deep,  in  mighty  herds, 

Passed  by  us,  reverently  they  passed  us  by, 

Long  trains  of  dolphins  rolling  through  the  brine, 

Huge  whales,  that  drew  the  waters  after  them, 

A  torrent-stream,  and  hideous  hammer-sharks, 

Chasing  their  prey  ;  I  shuddered  as  they  came ; 

Gently  they  turned  aside  and  gave  us  room." 

Hereat  broke  in  the  mother  :    "  Sella,  dear, 
This  is  a  dream,  the  idlest,  vainest  dream." 

"  Nay,  mother,  nay  ;  behold  this  sea-green  scarf, 
Woven  of  such  threads  as  never  human  hand 
Twined  from  the  distaff.     She  who  led  my  way 
Through  the  great  waters,  bade  me  wear  it  home, 
A  token  that  my  tale  is  true.     'And  keep,' 
She  said,  '  the  slippers  thou  hast  found,  for  thou, 


SELLA. 

When  shod  with  them,  shall  be  like  one  of  us, 

With  power  to  walk  at  will  the  ocean-floor, 

Among  its  monstrous  creatures,  unafraid, 

And  feel  no  longing  for  the  air  of  heaven 

To  fill  thy  lungs,  and  send  the  warm,  red  blood 

Along  thy  veins.     But  thou  shalt  pass  the  hours 

In  dances  with  the  sea-nymphs,  or  go  forth, 

To  look  into  the  mysteries  of  the  abyss 

Where  never  plummet  reached.     And  thou  shalt  sleep 

Thy  weariness  away  on  downy  banks 

Of  sea-moss,  where  the  pulses  of  the  tide 

Shall  gently  lift  thy  hair,  or  thou  shalt  float 

On  the  soft  currents  that  go  forth  and  wind 

From  isle  to  isle,  and  wander  through  the  sea.' 

"  So  spake  my  fellow- voyager,  her  words 
Sounding  like  wavelets  on  a  summer  shore, 
And  then  we  stopped  beside  a  hanging  rock, 
With  a  smooth  beach  of  white  sands  at  its  foot, 
Where  three  fair  creatures  like  herself  were  set 
At  their  sea-banquet,  crisp  and  juicy  stalks, 
Culled  from  the  ocean's  meadows,  and  the  sweet 
Midrib  of  pleasant  leaves,  and  golden  fruits 
Dropped  from  the  trees  that  edge  the  southern  isles, 
And  gathered  on  the  waves.     Kindly  they  prayed 
That  I  would  share  their  meal,  and  I  partook 
With  eager  appetite,  for  long  had  been 
My  journey,  and  I  left  the  spot  refreshed. 

"  And  then  we  wandered  off  amid  the  groves 
Of  coral  loftier  than  the  growths  of  earth ; 
The  mightiest  cedar  lifts  no  trunk  like  theirs, 
So  huge,  so  high  toward  heaven,  nor  overhangs 
Alleys  and  bowers  so  dim.    We  moved  between 
Pinnacles  of  black  rock,  which,  from  beneath, 
Molten  by  inner  fires,  so  said  my  guide, 
27 


3'3 


LATER  POEMS. 

Gushed  long  ago  into  the  hissing  brine, 

That  quenched  and  hardened  them,  and  now  they  stand 

Motionless  in  the  currents  of  the  sea 

That  part  and  flow  around  them.     As  we  went, 

We  looked  into  the  hollows  of  the  abyss, 

To  which  the  never-resting  waters  sweep 

The  skeletons  of  sharks,  the  long  white  spines 

Of  narwhal  and  of  dolphin,  bones  of  men 

Shipwrecked,  and  mighty  ribs  of  foundered  barks. 

Down  the  blue  pits  we  looked,  and  hastened  on. 

"  But  beautiful  the  fountains  of  the  sea 
Sprang  upward  from  its  bed:  the  silvery  jets 
Shot  branching  far  into  the  azure  brine, 
And  where  they  mingled  with  it,  the  great  deep 
Quivered  and  shook,  as  shakes  the  glimmering  air 
Above  a  furnace.     So  we  wandered  through 
The  mighty  world  of  waters,  till  at  length 
I  wearied  of  its  wonders,  and  my  heart 
Began  to  yearn  for  my  dear  mountain-home. 
I  prayed  my  gentle  guide  to  lead  me  back 
To  the  upper  air.     '  A  glorious  realm,'  I  said, 
'  Is  this  thou  openest  to  me ;  but  I  stray 
Bewildered  in  its  vastness  ;  these  strange  sights 
And  this  strange  light  oppress  me.     I  must  see 
The  faces  that  I  love,  or  I  shall  die.' 

"  She  took  my  hand,  and,  darting  through  the  waves, 
Brought  me  to  where  the  stream,  by  which  we  came, 
Rushed  into  the  main  ocean.     Then  began 
A  slower  journey  upward.     Wearily 
We  breasted  the  strong  current,  climbing  through 
The  rapids,  tossing  high  their  foam.     The  night 
Came  down,  and  in  the  clear  depth  of  a  pool, 
Edged  with  o'erhanging  rock,  we  took  our  rest 
Till  morning ;  and  I  slept,  and  dreamed  of  home 


SELLA. 

And  thee.     A  pleasant  sight  the  morning  showed  ; 
The  green  fields  of  this  upper  world,  the  herds 
That  grazed  the  bank,  the  light  on  the  red  clouds, 
The  trees,  with  all  their  host  of  trembling  leaves, 
Lifting  and  lowering  to  the  restless  wind 
Their  branches.     As  I  woke,  I  saw  them  all 
From  the  clear  stream ;  yet  strangely  was  my  heart 
Parted  between  the  watery  world  and  this, 
And  as  we  journeyed  upward,  oft  I  thought 
Of  marvels  I  had  seen,  and  stopped  and  turned, 
And  lingered,  till  I  thought  of  thee  again ; 
And  then  again  I  turned  and  clambered  up 
The  rivulet's  murmuring  path,  until  we  came 
Beside  this  cottage-door.     There  tenderly 
My  fair  conductor  kissed  me,  and  I  saw 
Her  face  no  more.     I  took  the  slippers  off. 
Oh !  with  what  deep  delight  my  lungs  drew  in 
The  air  of  heaven  again,  and  with  what  joy 
I  felt  my  blood  bound  with  its  former  glow ; 
And  now  I  never  leave  thy  side  again  !  " 

So  spoke  the  maiden  Sella,  with  large  tears 
Standing  in  her  mild  eyes,  and  in  the  porch 
Replaced  the  slippers.     Autumn  came  and  went ; 
The  winter  passed ;  another  summer  warmed 
The  quiet  pools  ;  another  autumn  tinged 
The  grape  with  red,  yet  while  it  hung  unplucked, 
The  mother  ere  her  time  was  carried  forth 
To  sleep  among  the  solitary  hills. 

A  long,  still  sadness  settled  on  that  home 
Among  the  mountains.     The  stern  father  there 
Wept  with  his  children,  and  grew  soft  of  heart, 
And  Sella,  and  the  brothers  twain,  and  one 
Younger  than  they,  a  sister  fair  and  shy, 
Strewed  the  new  grave  with  flowers,  and  round  it  set 


LATER  POEMS. 

Shrubs  that  all  winter  held  their  lively  green. 
Time  passed ;  the  grief  with  which  their  hearts  were  wmn; 
Waned  to  a  gentle  sorrow.     Sella,  now, 
Was  often  absent  from  the  patriarch's  board ; 
The  slippers  hung  no  longer  in  the  porch ; 
And  sometimes  after  summer  nights  her  couch 
Was  found  unpressed  at  dawn,  and  well  they  knew 
That  she  was  wandering  with  the  race  who  make 
Their  dwelling  in  the  waters.     Oft  her  looks 
Fixed  on  blank  space,  and  oft  the  ill-suited  word 
Told  that  her  thoughts  were  far  away.     In  vain 
Her  brothers  reasoned  with  her  tenderly, 
"  Oh  leave  not  thus  thy  kindred  !  "  so  they  prayed ; 
,"  Dear  Sella,  now  that  she  who  gave  us  birth 
Is  in  her  grave,  oh  go  not  hence,  to  seek 
Companions  in  that  strange  cold  realm  below, 
For  which  God  made  not  us  nor  thee,  but  stay 
To  be  the  grace  and  glory  of  our  home." 
She  looked  at  them  with  those  mild  eyes  and  wept, 
But  said  no  word  in  answer,  nor  refrained 
From  those  mysterious  wanderings  that  filled 
Their  loving  hearts  with  a  perpetual  pain. 

And  now  the  younger  sister,  fair  and  shy, 
Had  grown  to  early  womanhood,  and  one 
Who  loved  her  well  had  wooed  her  for  his  bride, 
And  she  had  named  the  wedding-day.     The  herd 
Had  given  its  fallings  for  the  marriage-feast ; 
The  roadside  garden  and  the  secret  glen 
Were  rifled  of  their  sweetest  flowers  to  twine 
The  door-posts,  and  to  lie  among  the  locks 
Of  maids,  the  wedding-guests,  and  from  the  boughs 
Of  mountain-orchards  had  the  fairest  fruit 
Been  plucked  to  glisten  in  the  canisters. 

Then,  trooping  over  hill  and  valley,  came 


SELL  A.  3 1  7 

Matron  and  maid,  grave  men  and  smiling  youths, 

Like  swallows  gathering  for  their  autumn  flight, 

In  costumes  of  that  simpler  age  they  came, 

That  gave  the  limbs  large  play,  and  wrapped  the  form 

In  easy  folds,  yet  bright  with  glowing  hues 

As  suited  holidays.     All  hastened  on 

To  that  glad  bridal.     There  already  stood 

The  priest  prepared  to  say  the  spousal  rite, 

And  there  the  harpers  in  due  order  sat, 

And  there  the  singers.     Sella,  midst  them  all, 

Moved  strangely  and  serenely  beautiful, 

With  clear  blue  eyes,  fair  locks,  and  brow  and  cheek 

Colorless  as  the  lily  of  the  lakes, 

Yet  moulded  to  such  shape  as  artists  give 

To  beings  of  immortal  youth.     Her  hands 

Had  decked  her  sister  for  the  bridal  hour 

With  chosen  flowers,  and  lawn  whose  delicate  threads 

Vied  with  the  spider's  spinning.     There  she  stood 

With  such  a  gentle  pleasure  in  her  looks 

As  might  beseem  a  river-nymph's  soft  eyes 

Gracing  a  bridal  of  the  race  whose  flocks 

Were  pastured  on  the  borders  of  her  stream. 

She  smiled,  but  from  that  calm  sweet  face  the  smile 
Was  soon  to  pass  away.     That  very  morn 
The  elder  of  the  brothers,  as  he  stood 
Upon  the  hillside,  had  beheld  the  maid, 
Emerging  from  the  channel  of  the  brook, 
With  three  fresh  water-lilies  in  her  hand, 
Wring  dry  her  dripping  locks,  and  in  a  cleft 
Of  hanging  rock,  beside  a  screen  of  boughs 
Bestow  the  spangled  slippers.     None  before 
Had  known  where  Sella  hid  them.     Then  she  laid 
The  light-brown  tresses  smooth,  and  in  them  twined 
The  lily-buds,  and  hastily  drew  forth 


LATER  POEMS. 

And  threw  across  her  shoulders  a  light  robe 
Wrought  for  the  bridal,  and  with  bounding  steps 
Ran  toward  the  lodge.     The  youth  beheld  and  marked 
The  spot  and  slowly  followed  from  afar. 

Now  had  the  marriage-rite  been  said ;  the  bride 
Stood  in  the  blush  that  from  her  burning  cheek 
Glowed  down  the  alabaster  neck,  as  morn 
Crimsons  the  pearly  heaven  half-way  to  the  west. 
At  once  the  harpers  struck  their  chords  :  a  gush 
Of  music  broke  upon  the  air ;  the  youths 
All  started  to  the  dance.    Among  them  moved 
The  queenly  Sella  with  a  grace  that  seemed 
Caught  from  the  swaying  of  the  summer  sea. 
The  young  drew  forth  the  elders  to  the  dance, 
Who  joined  it  half  abashed,  but  when  they  felt 
The  joyous  music  tingling  in  their  veins, 
They  called  for  quaint  old  measures,  which  they  trod 
As  gayly  as  in  youth,  and  far  abroad 
Came  through  the  open  windows  cheerful  shouts 
And  bursts  of  laughter.     They  who  heard  the  sound 
Upon  the  mountain  footpaths  paused  and  said, 
"  A  merry  wedding."     Lovers  stole  away 
That  sunny  afternoon  to  bowers  that  edged 
The  garden-walks,  and  what  was  whispered  there 
The  lovers  of  these  later  times  can  guess. 

Meanwhile  the  brothers,  when  the  merry  din 
Was  loudest,  stole  to  where  the  slippers  lay, 
And  took  them  thence,  and  followed  down  the  brook 
To  where  a  little  rapid  rushed  between 
Its  borders  of  smooth  rock,  and  dropped  them  in. 
The  rivulet,  as  they  touched  its  face,  flung  up 
Its  small  bright  waves  like  hands,  and  seemed  to  take 
The  prize  with  eagerness  and  draw  it  down. 
They,  gleaming  through  the  waters  as  they  went, 


SELL  A. 


3'9 


And  striking  with  light  sound  the  shining  stones, 

Slid  down  the  stream.     The  brothers  looked  and  watched, 

And  listened  with  full  beating  hearts,  till  now 

The  sight  and  sound  had  passed,  and  silently 

And  half  repentant  hastened  to  the  lodge. 

The  sun  was  near  his  set ;  the  music  rang 
Within  the  dwelling  still,  but  the  mirth  waned ; 
For  groups  of  guests  were  sauntering  toward  their  homes 
Across  the  fields,  and  far,  on  hillside  paths, 
Gleamed  the  white  robes  of  maidens.     Sella  grew 
Weary  of  the  long  merriment ;  she  thought 
Of  her  still  haunts  beneath  the  soundless  sea, 
And  all  unseen  withdrew  and  sought  the  cleft 
Where  she  had  laid  the  slippers.     They  were  gone  ! 
She  searched  the  brookside  near,  yet  found  them  not. 
Then  her  heart  sank  within  her,  and  she  ran 
Wildly  from  place  to  place,  and  once  again 
She  searched  the  secret  cleft,  and  next  she  stooped 
And  with  spread  palms  felt  carefully  beneath 
The  tufted  herbs  and  bushes,  and  again, 
And  yet  again,  she  searched  the  rocky  cleft. 
"  Who  could  have  taken  them  ?  "     That  question  cleared 
The  mystery.     She  remembered  suddenly 
That  when  the  dance  was  in  its  gayest  whirl, 
Her  brothers  were  not  seen,  and  when,  at  length, 
They  reappeared,  the  elder  joined  the  sports 
With  shouts  of  boisterous  mirth,  and  from  her  eye 
The  younger  shrank  in  silence.     "  Now,  I  know 
The  guilty  ones,"  she  said,  and  left  the  spot, 
And  stood  before  the  youths  with  such  a  look 
Of  anguish  and  reproach  that  well  they  knew 
Her  thought,  and  almost  wished  the  deed  undone. 

Frankly  they  owned  the  charge  :   "  And  pardon  us  ; 
We  did  it  all  in  love  ;  we  could  not  bear 


320  LATER  POEMS. 

That  the  cold  world  of  waters  and  the  strange 

Beings  that  dwell  within  it  should  beguile 

Our  sister  from  us."     Then  they  told  her  all ; 

How  they  had  seen  her  stealthily  bestow 

The  slippers  in  the  cleft,  and  how  by  stealth 

They  took  them  thence  and  bore  them  down  the  brook, 

And  dropped  them  in,  and  how  the  eager  waves 

Gathered  and  drew  them  down  :  but  at  that  word    . 

The  maiden  shrieked — a  broken-hearted  shriek — 

And  all  who  heard  it  shuddered  and  turned  pale 

At  the  despairing  cry,  and  "They  are  gone," 

She  said,  "  gone — gone  forever  !     Cruel  ones ! 

'Tis  you  who  shut  me  out  eternally 

From  that  serener  world  which  I  had  learned 

To  love  so  well.     Why  took  ye  not  my  life  ? 

Ye  cannot  know  what  ye  have  done  !  "     She  spake 

And  hurried  to  her  chamber,  and  the  guests 

Who  yet  had  lingered  silently  withdrew. 

The  brothers  followed  to  the  maiden's  bower, 
But  with  a  calm  demeanor,  as  they  came, 
She  met  them  at  the  door.     "  The  wrong  is  great," 
She  said,  "  that  ye  have  done  me,  but  no  power 
Have  ye  to  make  it  less,  nor  yet  to  soothe 
My  sorrow;  I  shall  bear  it  as  I  may, 
The  better  for  the  hours  that  I  have  passed 
In  the  calm  region  of  the  middle  sea. 
Go,  then.     I  need  you  not."     They,  overawed, 
Withdrew  from  that  grave  presence.     Then  her  tears 
Broke  forth  a  flood,  as  when  the  August  cloud, 
Darkening  beside  the  mountain,  suddenly 
Melts  into  streams  of  rain.     That  weary  night 
She  paced  her  chamber,  murmuring  as  she  walked, 
"  O  peaceful  region  of  the  middle  sea ! 
O  azure  bowers  and  grots,  in  which  I  loved 


SELLA. 

To  roam  and  rest !     Am  I  to  long  for  you, 
And  think  how  strangely  beautiful  ye  are, 
Yet  never  see  you  more  ?    And  dearer  yet, 
Ye  gentle  ones  in  whose  sweet  company 
I  trod  the  shelly  pavements  of  the  deep, 
And  swam  its  currents,  creatures  with  calm  eyes 
Looking  the  tenderest  love,  and  voices  soft 
As  ripple  of  light  waves  along  the  shore, 
Uttering  the  tenderest  words  !     Oh  !  ne'er  again 
Shall  I,  in  your  mild  aspects,  read  the  peace 
That  dwells  within,  and  vainly  shall  I  pine 
To  hear  your  sweet  low  voices.     Haply  now 
Ye  miss  me  in  your  deep-sea  home,  and  think 
Of  me  with  pity,  as  of  one  condemned 
To  haunt  this  upper  world,  with  its  harsh  sounds 
And  glaring  lights,  its  withering  heats,  its  frosts, 
Cruel  and  killing,  its  delirious  strifes, 
And  all  its  feverish  passions,  till  I  die." 

So  mourned  she  the  long  night,  and  when  the  morn 
Brightened  the  mountains,  from  her  lattice  looked 
The  maiden  on  a  world  that  was  to  her 
A  desolate  and  dreary  waste.     That  day 
She  passed  in  wandering  by  the  brook  that  oft 
Had  been  her  pathway  to  the  sea,  and  still 
Seemed,  with  its  cheerful  murmur,  to  invite 
Her  footsteps  thither.     "Well  mayst  thou  rejoice, 
Fortunate  stream  !  "  she  said,  "and  dance  along 
Thy  bed,  and  make  thy  course  one  ceaseless  strain 
Of  music,  for  thou  journeyest  toward  the  deep, 
To  which  I  shall  return  no  more."    The  night 
Brought  her  to  her  lone  chamber,  and  she  knelt 
And  prayed,  with  many  tears,  to  Him  whose  hand 
Touches  the  wounded  heart  and  it  is  healed. 
With  prayer  there  came  new  thoughts  and  new  desires. 


321 


LATER  POEMS. 

She  asked  for  patience  and  a  deeper  love 

For  those  with  whom  her  lot  was  henceforth  cast, 

And  that  in  acts  of  mercy  she  might  lose 

The  sense  of  her  own  sorrow.     When  she  rose 

A  weight  was  lifted  from  her  heart.     She  sought 

Her  couch,  and  slept  a  long  and  peaceful  sleep. 

At  morn  she  woke  to  a  new  life.     Her  days 

Henceforth  were  given  to  quiet  tasks  of  good 

In  the  great  world.     Men  hearkened  to  her  words, 

And  wondered  at  their  wisdom  and  obeyed, 

And  saw  how  beautiful  the  law  of  love 

Can  make  the  cares  and  toils  of  daily  life. 

Still  did  she  love  to  haunt  the  springs  and  brooks, 
As  in  her  cheerful  childhood,  and  she  taught 
The  skill  to  pierce  the  soil  and  meet  the  veins 
Of  clear  cold  water  winding  underneath, 
And  call  them  forth  to  daylight.     From  afai 
She  bade  men  bring  the  rivers  on  long  rows 
Of  pillared  arches  to  the  sultry  town, 
And  on  the  hot  air  of  the  summer  fling 
The  spray  of  dashing  fountains.     To  relieve 
Their  weary  hands,  she  showed  them  how  to  tame 
The  rushing  stream,  and  make  him  drive  the  wheel 
That  whirls  the  humming  millstone  and  that  wields 
The  ponderous  sledge.     The  waters  of  the  cloud, 
That  drench  the  hillside  in  the  time  of  rains, 
Were  gathered,  at  her  bidding,  into  pools, 
And  in  the  months  of  drought  led  forth  again, 
In  glimmering  rivulets,  to  refresh  the  vales, 
Till  the  sky  darkened  with  returning  showers. 

So  passed  her  life,  a  long  and  blameless  life, 
And  far  and  near  her  name  was  named  with  love 
And  reverence.     Still  she  kept,  as  age  came  on, 
Her  stately  presence  •  still  her  eyes  looked  forth 


FIFTH  BOOK  OF  HOMERS  ODYSSEY. 

From  under  their  calm  brows  as  brightly  clear 

As  the  transparent  wells  by  which  she  sat 

So  oft  in  childhood.     Still  she  kept  her  fair 

Unwrinkled  features,  though  her  locks  were  white. 

A  hundred  times  had  summer,  since  her  birth, 

Opened  the  water-lily  on  the  lakes, 

So  old  traditions  tell,  before  she  died. 

A  hundred  cities  mourned  her,  and  her  death 

Saddened  the  pastoral  valleys.     By  the  brook, 

That  bickering  ran  beside  the  cottage-door 

Where  she  was  born,  they  reared  her  monument. 

Ere  long  the  current  parted  and  flowed  round 

The  marble  base,  forming  a  little  isle, 

And  there  the  flowers  that  love  the  running  stream, 

Iris  and  orchis,  and  the  cardinal-flower, 

Crowded  and  hung  caressingly  around 

The  stone  engraved  with  Sella's  honored  name. 


THE   FIFTH   BOOK   OF   HOMER'S   ODYSSEY. 

TRANSLATED. 

AURORA,  rising  from  her  couch  beside 
The  famed  Tithonus,  brought  the  light  of  day 
To  men  and  to  immortals.     Then  the  gods 
Came  to  their  seats  in  council.     With  them  came 
High-thundering  Jupiter,  among  them  all 
The  mightiest.     Pallas,  mindful  of  the  past, 
Spoke  of  Ulysses  and  his  many  woes, 
Grieved  that  he  still  was  with  the  island-nymph. 


323 


3*4 


LATER  POEMS. 

"  Oh,  father  Jove,  and  all  ye  blessed  ones 
Who  live  forever !  let  not  sceptred  king, 
Henceforth,  be  gracious,  mild,  and  merciful, 
And  righteous ;  rather  be  he  deaf  to  prayer, 
And  prone  to  deeds  of  wrong,  since  no  one  now 
Remembers  the  divine  Ulysses  more 
Among  the  people  over  whom  he  ruled, 
Benignly,  like  a  father.     Still  he  lies, 
Weighed  down  by  many  sorrows,  in  the  isle 
And  dwelling  of  Calypso,  who  so  long 
Constrains  his  stay.     To  his  dear  native  land 
Depart  he  cannot ;  ship,  arrayed  with  oars, 
And  seamen  has  he  none,  to  bear  him  o'er 
The  breast  of  the  broad  ocean.     Nay,  even  now, 
Against  his  well-beloved  son  a  plot 
Is  laid,  to  slay  him  as  he  journeys  home 
From  Pylos  the  divine,  and  from  the  walls 
Of  famous  Sparta,  whither  he  had  gone 
To  gather  tidings  of  his  father's  fate." 

Then  answered  her  the  ruler  of  the  storms  : 
"  My  child,  what  words  are  these  that  pass  thy  lips  ? 
Was  not  thy  long-determined  counsel  this, 
That,  in  good  time,  Ulysses  should  return, 
To  be  avenged  ?     Guide,  then,  Telemachus, 
Wisely,  for  so  thou  canst,  that,  all  unharmed, 
He  reach  his  native  land,  and,  in  their  barks, 
Homeward  the  suitor-train  retrace  their  way." 

He  spoke,  and  turned  to  Hermes,  his  dear  son : 
"  Hermes,  for  thou,  in  this,  my  messenger 
Art,  as  in  all  things,  to  the  bright-haired  nymph 
Make  known  my  steadfast  purpose,  the  return 
Of  suffering  Ulysses.    Neither  gods 
Nor  men  shall  guide  his  voyage.     On  a  raft, 
Made  firm  with  bands,  he  shall  depart  and  reach, 


FIFTH  BOOK  OF  HOMERS  ODYSSEY.        325 

After  long  hardships,  on  the  twentieth  day, 

The  fertile  shore  of  Scheria,  on  whose  isle 

Dwell  the  Pheacians,  kinsmen  of  the  gods. 

They  like  a  god  shall  honor  him,  and  thence 

Send  him  to  his  loved  country  in  a  ship, 

With  ample  gifts  of  brass  and  gold,  and  store 

Of  raiment — wealth  like  which  he  ne'er  had  brought 

From  conquered  Ilion,  had  he  reached  his  home 

Safely,  with  all  his  portion  of  the  spoil. 

So  is  it  preordained,  that  he  behold 

His  friends  again,  and  stand  once  more  within 

His  high-roofed  palace,  on  his  native  soil." 

He  spake ;  the  herald  Argicide  obeyed, 
And  hastily  beneath  his  feet  he  bound 
The  fair,  ambrosial,  golden  sandals,  worn 
To  bear  him  over  ocean  like  the  wind, 
And  o'er  the  boundless  land.     His  wand  he  took, 
Wherewith  he  softly  seals  the  eyes  of  men, 
And  opens  them  at  will  from  sleep.     With  this 
In  hand,  the  mighty  Argos-queller  flew, 
And  lighting  on  Pieria,  from  the  sky 
Plunged  downward  to  the  deep,  and  skimmed  its  face 
Like  hovering  sea-mew,  that  on  the  broad  gulfs 
Of  the  unfruitful  ocean  seeks  her  prey, 
And  often  dips  her  pinions  in  the  brine. 
So  Hermes  flew  along  the  waste  of  waves. 

But  when  he  reached  that  island,  far  away, 
Forth  from  the  dark-blue  ocean-swell  he  stepped 
Upon  the  sea-beach,  walking  till  he  came 
To  the  vast  cave  in  which  the  bright-haired  nymph 
Made  her  abode.     He  found  the  nymph  within. 
A  fire  blazed  brightly  on  the  hearth,  and  far 
Was  wafted  o'er  the  isle  the  fragrant  smoke 
Of  cloven  cedar,  burning  in  the  flame, 


LATER  POEMS. 

And  cypress-wood.     Meanwhile,  in  her  recess, 
She  sweetly  sang,  as  busily  she  threw 
The  golden  shuttle  through  the  web  she  wove. 
And  all  about  the  grotto  alders  grew, 
And  poplars,  and  sweet-smelling  cypresses, 
In  a  green  forest,  high  among  whose  boughs 
Birds  of  broad  wing,  wood-owls  and  falcons,  built 
Their  nests,  and  crows,  with  voices  sounding  far, 
All  haunting  for  their  food  the  ocean-side. 
A  vine,  with  downy  leaves  and  clustering  grapes, 
Crept  over  all  the  cavern-rock.     Four  springs 
Poured  forth  their  glittering  waters  in  a  row, 
And  here  and  there  went  wandering  side  by  side. 
Around  were  meadows  of  soft  green,  o'ergrown 
With  violets  and  parsley.     'Twas  a  spot 
Where  even  an  Immortal  might,  awhile, 
Linger,  and  gaze  with  wonder  and  delight. 
The  herald  Argos-queller  stood,  and  saw, 
And  marvelled  :  but  as  soon  as  he  had  viewed 
The  wonders  of  the  place,  he  turned  his  steps, 
Entering  the  broad-roofed  cave.     Calypso  there, 
The  glorious  goddess,  saw  him  as  he  came, 
And  knew  him,  for  the  ever-living  gods 
Are  to  each  other  known,  though  one  may  dwell 
Far  from  the  rest.     Ulysses,  large  of  heart, 
Was  not  within.     Apart,  upon  the  shore, 
He  sat  and  sorrowed,  where  he  oft,  in  tears 
And  sighs  and  vain  repinings,  passed  the  hours, 
Gazing  with  wet  eyes  on  the  barren  deep. 
Now,  placing  Hermes  on  a  shining  seat 
Of  state,  Calypso,  glorious  goddess,  said  : 

"Thou  of  the  golden  wand,  revered  and  loved, 
What,  Hermes,  brings  thee  hither  ?  Passing  few 
Have  been  thy  visits.  Make  thy  pleasure  known, 


FIFTH  BOOK  OF  HOMER'S   ODYSSEY.        327 

My  heart  enjoins  me  to  obey,  if  aught 
That  thou  commandest  be  within  my  power. 
But  first  accept  the  offerings  due  a  guest." 

The  goddess,  speaking  thus,  before  him  placed 
A  table  where  the  heaped  ambrosia  lay, 
And  mingled  the  red  nectar.     Ate  and  drank 
The  herald  Argos-queller,  and,  refreshed, 
Answered  the  nymph,  and  made  his  message  known  : 

"  Art  thou  a  goddess,  and  dost  ask  of  me, 
A  god,  why  came  I  hither  ?     Yet,  since  thou 
Requirest,  I  will  truly  tell  the  cause. 
I  came  unwillingly  at  Jove's  command, 
For  who,  of  choice,  would  traverse  the  wide  waste 
Of  the  salt  ocean,  with  no  city  near, 
Where  men  adore  the  gods  with  solemn  rites 
And  chosen  hecatombs  ?     No  god  has  power 
To  elude  or  to  resist  the  purposes 
Of  aegis-bearing  Jove.     With  thee  abides, 
He  bids  me  say,  the  most  unhappy  man 
Of  all  who  round  the  city  of  Priam  waged 
The  battle  through  nine  years,  and,  in  the  tenth, 
Laying  it  waste,  departed  for  their  homes. 
But  in  their  voyage,  they  provoked  the  wrath 
Of  Pallas,  who  called  up  the  furious  winds 
And  angry  waves  against  them.     By  his  side 
Sank  all  his  gallant  comrades  in  the  deep. 
Him  did  the  winds  and  waves  drive  hither.     Him 
Jove  bids  thee  send  away  with  speed,  for  here 
He  must  not  perish,  far  from  all  he  loves. 
So  is  it  preordained  that  he  behold 
His  friends  again,  and  stand  once  more  within 
His  high-roofed  palace,  on  his  native  soil." 

He  spoke ;  Calypso,  glorious  goddess,  heard, 
And  shuddered,  and  with  winged  words  replied : 


328  LATER  POEMS. 

"  Ye  are  unjust,  ye  gods,  and,  envious  far 
Beyond  all  other  beings,  cannot  bear 
That  ever  goddess  openly  should  make 
A  mortal  man  her  consort.     Thus  it  was 
When  once  Aurora,  rosy-fingered,  took 
Orion  for  her  husband ;  ye  were  stung, 
Amid  your  blissful  lives,  with  envious  hate, 
Till  chaste  Diana,  of  the  golden  throne, 
Smote  him  with  silent  arrows  from  her  bow, 
And  slew  him  in  Ortygia.     Thus,  again, 
When  bright-haired  Ceres,  swayed  by  her  own  heart, 
In  fields  which  bore  three  yearly  harvests,  met 
lasion  as  a  lover,  this  was  known 
Ere  long  to  Jupiter,  who  flung  from  high 
A  flaming  thunderbolt,  and  laid  him  dead. 
And  now  ye  envy  me,  that  with  me  dwells 
A  mortal  man.     I  saved  him,  as  he  clung, 
Alone,  upon  his  floating  keel,  for  Jove 
Had  cloven,  with  a  bolt  of  fire  from  heaven, 
His  galley  in  the  midst  of  the  black  sea, 
And  all  his  gallant  comrades  perished  there. 
Him  kindly  I  received ;  I  cherished  him, 
And  promised  him  a  life  that  ne'er  should  know 
Decay  or  death.     But,  since  no  god  has  power 
To  elude  or  to  withstand  the  purposes 
Of  aegis-bearing  Jove,  let  him  depart, 
If  so  the  sovereign  moves  him  and  commands, 
Over  the  barren  deep.     I  send  him  not; 
For  neither  ship  arrayed  with  oars  have  I, 
Nor  seamen,  o'er  the  boundless  waste  of  waves 
To  bear  him  hence.     My  counsel  I  will  give, 
And  nothing  will  I  hide  that  he  should  know, 
To  place  him  safely  on  his  native  shore." 

The  herald  Argos-queller  answered  her  : 


FIFTH  BOOK  OF  HOMEFS  ODYSSEY.        329 

"  Dismiss  him  thus,  and  bear  in  mind  the  wrath 
Of  Jove,  lest  it  be  kindled  against  thee." 

Thus  having  said,  the  mighty  Argicide 
Departed,  and  the  nymph,  who  now  had  heard 
The  doom  of  Jove,  sought  the  great-hearted  man, 
Ulysses.     Him  she  found  beside  the  deep, 
Seated  alone,  with  eyes  from  which  the  tears 
Were  never  dried,  for  now  no  more  the  nymph 
Delighted  him ;  he  wasted  his  sweet  life 
In  yearning  for  his  home.     Night  after  night 
He  slept  constrained  within  the  hollow  cave, 
The  unwilling  by  the  fond,  and,  day  by  day, 
He  sat  upon  the  rocks  that  edged  the  shore, 
And  in  continual  weeping  and  in  sighs 
And  vain  repinings,  wore  the  hours  away, 
Gazing  through  tears  upon  the  barren  deep. 
The  glorious  goddess  stood  by  him  and  spoke 

"  Unhappy!  sit  no  longer  sorrowing  here, 
Nor  waste  life  thus.     Lo  !  I  most  willingly 
Dismiss  thee  hence.     Rise,  hew  down  trees,  and  bind 
Their  trunks,  with  brazen  clamps,  into  a  raft, 
And  fasten  planks  above,  a  lofty  floor, 
That  it  may  bear  thee  o'er  the  dark-blue  deep. 
Bread  will  I  put  on  board,  water,  and  wine, 
Red  wine,  that  cheers  the  heart,  and  wrap  thee  well 
In  garments,  and  send  after  thee  the  wind, 
That  safely  thou  attain  thy  native  shore  ; 
If  so  the  gods  permit  thee,  who  abide 
In  the  broad  heaven  above,  and  better  know 
By  far  than  I,  and  far  more  wisely  judge." 

Ulysses,  the  great  sufferer,  as  she  spoke, 
Shuddered,  and  thus  with  winged  words  replied  : 
"  Some  other  purpose  than  to  send  me  home 
Is  in  thy  heart,  oh  goddess,  bidding  me 


LA  TER  POEMS. 

To  cross  this  frightful  sea  upon  a  raft, 
This  perilous  sea,  where  never  even  ships 
Pass  with  their  rapid  keels,  though  Jove  bestow 
The  wind  that  glads  the  seaman.     Nay,  I  climb 
No  raft,  against  thy  wish,  unless  thou  swear 
The  great  oath  of  the  gods,  that  thou,  in  this, 
Dost  meditate  no  other  harm  to  me," 

He  spake  ;  Calypso,  glorious  goddess,  smiled, 
And  smoothed  his  forehead  with  her  hand,  and  said : 

"  Perverse !  and  slow  to  see  where  guile  is  not ! 
How  could  thy  heart  permit  thee  thus  to  speak  ? 
Now  bear  me  witness,  Earth,  and  ye  broad  Heavens 
Above  us,  and  ye  waters  of  the  Styx 
That  flow  beneath  us,  mightiest  oath  of  all, 
And  most  revered  by  all  the  blessed  gods, 
That  I  design  no  other  harm  to  thee  ; 
But  that  I  plan  for  thee  and  counsel  thee 
What  I  would  do  were  I  in  need  like  thine. 
I  bear  a  juster  mind ;  my  bosom  holds 
A  pitying  heart,  and  not  a  heart  of  steel." 

Thus  having  said,  the  glorious  goddess  moved 
Away  with  hasty  steps,  and  where  she  trod 
He  followed,  till  they  reached  the  vaulted  cave, 
The  goddess  and  the  hero.     There  he  took 
The  seat  whence  Hermes  had  just  risen.     The  nymph 
Brought  forth  whatever  mortals  eat  and  drink 
To  set  before  him.     She,  right  opposite 
To  that  of  great  Ulysses,  took  her  seat, 
Ambrosia  there  her  maidens  laid,  and  there 
Poured  nectar.     Both  put  forth  their  hands,  and  took 
The  ready  viands,  till  at  length  the  calls 
Of  hunger  and  of  thirst  were  satisfied ; 
Calypso,  glorious  goddess,  then  began  : 
"  Son  of  Laertes,  man  of  many  wiles, 


FIFTH  BOOK  OF  HOMERS  ODYSSEY.        33] 

High-born  Ulysses  !     Thus  wilt  thou  depart 
Home  to  thy  native  country  ?    Then  farewell ; 
But,  couldst  thou  know  the  sufferings  Fate  ordains 
For  thee  ere  yet  thou  landest  on  its  shore, 
Thou  wouldst  remain  to  keep  this  home  with  me, 
And  be  immortal,  strong  as  is  thy  wish 
To  see  thy  wife — a  wish  that,  day  by  day, 
Possesses  thee.     I  cannot  deem  myself 
In  form  or  face  less  beautiful  than  she ; 
For  never  with  immortals  can  the  race 
Of  mortal  dames  in  form  or  face  compare." 

Ulysses,  the  sagacious,  answered  her : 
"  Bear  with  me,  gracious  goddess  ;  well  I  know 
All  thou  couldst  say.     The  sage  Penelope 
In  feature  and  in  stature  comes  not  nigh 
To  thee ;  for  she  is  mortal,  deathless  thou 
And  ever  young ;  yet,  day  by  day,  I  long 
To  be  at  home  once  more,  and  pine  to  see 
The  hour  of  my  return.     Even  though  some  god 
-Smite  me  on  the  black  ocean,  I  shall  bear 
The  stroke,  for  in  my  bosom  dwells  a  mind 
Patient  of  suffering ;  much  have  I  endured, 
And  much  survived,  in  tempests  on  the  deep, 
And  in  the  battle ;  let  this  happen  too." 

He  spoke ;  the  sun  went  down ;  the  night  came  on, 
And  now  the  twain  withdrew  to  a  recess 
Deep  in  the  vaulted  cave,  where,  side  by  side, 
They  took  their  rest.     But  when  the  child  of  dawn, 
Aurora,  rosy-fingered,  looked  abroad, 
Ulysses  put  his  vest  and  mantle  on ; 
The  nymph  too,  in  a  robe  of  silver  white, 
Ample,  and  delicate,  and  beautiful, 
Arrayed  herself,  and  round  about  her  loins 
Wound  a  fair  golden  girdle,  drew  a  veil 


332 


LATER  POEMS. 

Over  her  head,  and  planned  to  send  away 

Magnanimous  Ulysses.     She  bestowed 

A  heavy  axe,  of  steel,  and  double-edged, 

Well  fitted  to  the  hand,  the  handle  wrought 

Of  olive-wood,  firm  set  and  beautiful. 

A  polished  adze  she  gave  him  next,  and  led 

The  way  to  a  far  corner  of  the  isle, 

Where  lofty  trees,  alders  and  poplars,  stood, 

And  firs  that  reach  the  clouds,  sapless  and  dry 

Long  since,  'and  fitter  thus  to  ride  the  waves. 

Then,  having  shown  where  grew  the  tallest  trees, 

Calypso,  glorious  goddess,  sought  her  home. 

Trees  then  he  felled,  and  soon  the  task  was  done. 
Twenty  in  all  he  brought  to  earth,  and  squared 
Their  trunks  with  the  sharp  steel,  and  carefully 
He  smoothed  their  sides,  and  wrought  them  by  a  line. 
Calypso,  gracious  goddess,  having  brought 
Wimbles,  he  bored  the  beams,  and,  fitting  them 
Together,  made  them  fast  with  nails  and  clamps. 
As  when  some  builder,  skilful  in  his  art, 
Frames,  for  a  ship  of  burden,  the  broad  keel, 
Such  ample  breadth  Ulysses  gave  the  raft. 
Upon  the  massy  beams  he  reared  a  deck, 
And  floored  it  with  long  planks  from  end  to  end. 
On  this  a  mast  he  raised,  and  to  the  mast 
Fitted  a  yard ;  he  shaped  a  rudder  next, 
To  guide  the  raft  along  her  course,  and  round 
With  woven  work  of  willow-boughs  he  fenced 
Her  sides  against  the  dashings  of  the  sea. 
Calypso,  gracious  goddess,  brought  him  store 
Of  canvas,  which  he  fitly  shaped  to  sails, 
And,  rigging  her  with  cords,  and  ropes,  and  stays, 
Heaved  her  with  levers  into  the  great  deep. 

'Twas  the  fourth  day ;  his  labors  now  were  done, 


FIFTH  BOOK  OF  HOMER'S  ODYSSEY.        333 

And,  on  the  fifth,  the  goddess  from  her  isle 

Dismissed  him,  newly  from  the  bath,  arrayed 

In  garments  given  by  her,  that  shed  perfumes. 

A  skin  of  dark-red  wine  she  put  on  board, 

A  larger  one  of  water,  and  for  food 

A  basket,  stored  with  viands  such  as  please 

The  appetite.     A  friendly  wind  and  soft 

She  sent  before.     The  great  Ulysses  spread 

His  canvas  joyfully,  to  catch  the  breeze, 

And  sat  and  guided  with  nice  care  the  helm, 

Gazing  with  fixed  eye  on  the  Pleiades, 

Bootes  setting  late,  and  the  Great  Bear, 

By  others  called  the  Wain,  which,  wheeling  round, 

Looks  ever  toward  Orion,  and  alone 

Dips  not  into  the  waters  of  the  deep. 

For  so  Calypso,  glorious  goddess,  bade 

That,  on  his  ocean  journey,  he  should  keep 

That  constellation  ever  on  his  left. 

Now  seventeen  days  were  in  the  voyage  past, 

And  on  the  eighteenth  shadowy  heights  appeared, 

The  nearest  point  of  the  Pheacian  land, 

Lying  on  the  dark  ocean  like  a  shield. 

But  mighty  Neptune,  coming  from  among 
The  Ethiopians,  saw  him.     Far  away 
lie  saw,  from  mountain-heights  of  Solyma, 
The  voyager,  and  burned  with  fiercer  wrath, 
And  shook  his  head,  and  said  within  himself : 

"  Strange !  now  I  see  the  gods  have  new  designs 
For  this  Ulysses,  formed  while  I  was  yet 
In  Ethiopia.     He  draws  near  the  land 
Of  the  Pheacians,  where  it  is  decreed 
He  shall  o'erpass  the  boundary  of  his  woes'; 
But  first,  I  think,  he  will  have  much  to  bear." 

He  spoke,  and  round  about  him  called  the  clouds 


LATER  POEMS. 

And  roused  the  ocean,  wielding  in  his  hand 
The  trident,  summoned  all  the  hurricanes 
Of  all  the  winds,  and  covered  earth  and  sky 
At  once  with  mists,  while  from  above,  the  night 
Fell  suddenly.     The  east  wind  and  the  south 
Rushed  forth  at  once,  with  the  strong-blowing  west, 
And  the  clear  north  rolled  up  his  mighty  waves. 
Ulysses  trembled  in  his  knees  and  heart, 
And  thus  to  his  great  soul,  lamenting,  said : 

"  What  will  become  of  me?  unhappy  man  ! 
I  fear  that  all  the  goddess  said  was  true, 
Foretelling  what  disasters  should  o'ertake 
My  voyage,  ere  I  reach  my  native  land. 
Now  are  her  words  fulfilled.     How  Jupiter 
Wraps  the  great  heaven  in  clouds  and  stirs  the  deep 
To  tumult !     Wilder  grow  the  hurricanes 
Of  all  the  winds,  and  now  my  fate  is  sure. 
Thrice  happy,  four  times  happy  they,  who  fell 
On  Troy's  wide  field,  warring  for  Atreus'  sons  : 
O,  had  I  met  my  fate  and  perished  there, 
That  very  day  on  which  the  Trojan  host, 
Around  the  dead  Achilles,  hurled  at  me 
Their  brazen  javelins  !   I  had  then  received 
Due  burial  and  great  glory  with  the  Greeks ; 
Now  must  I  die  a  miserable  death." 

As  thus  he  spoke,  upon  him,  from  on  high, 
A  huge  and  frightful  billow  broke ;  it  whirled 
The  raft  around,  and  far  from  it  he  fell. 
His  hands  let  go  the  rudder ;  a  fierce  rush 
Of  all  the  winds  together  snapped  in  twain 
The  mast ;  far  off  the  yard  and  canvas  flew 
Into  the  deep ;  the  billow  held  him  long 
Beneath  the  waters,  and  he  strove  in  vain 
Quickly  to  rise  to  air  from  that  huge  swell 


FIFTH  BOOK  OF  HOMERS  ODYSSEY.        335 

Of  ocean,  for  the  garments  weighed  him  down 
Which  fair  Calypso  gave  him.     But,  at  length, 
Emerging,  he  rejected  from  his  throat 
The  bitter  brine  that  down  his  forehead  streamed. 
Even  then,  though  hopeless  with  dismay,  his  thought 
Was  on  the  raft,  and,  struggling  through  the  waves, 
He  seized  it,  sprang  on  board,  and  seated  there 
Escaped  the  threatened  death.     Still  to  and  fro 
The  rolling  billows  drove  it.     As  the  wind 
In  autumn  sweeps  the  thistles  o'er  the  field, 
Clinging  together,  so  the  blasts  of  heaven 
Hither  and  thither  drove  it  o'er  the  sea. 
And  now  the  south  wind  flung  it  to  the  north 
To  buffet ;  now  the  east  wind  to  the  west. 

Ino  Leucothea  saw  him  clinging  there, 
The  delicate-footed  child  of  Cadmus,  once 
A  mortal,  speaking  with  a  mortal  voice ; 
Though  now  within  the  ocean-gulfs,  she  shares 
The  honors  of  the  gods.     With  pity  she 
Beheld  Ulysses  struggling  thus  distressed, 
And,  rising  from  the  abyss  below,  in  form 
A  cormorant,  the  sea-nymph  took  her  perch 
On  the  well-banded  raft,  and  thus  she  said : 

"Ah,  luckless  man,  how  hast  thou  angered  limn 
Earth-shaking  Neptune,  that  he  visits  thee 
With  these  disasters  ?    Yet  he  cannot  take, 
Although  he  seek  it  earnestly,  thy  life. 
Now  do  my  bidding,  for  thou  seemest  wise. 
Laying  aside  thy  garments,  let  the  raft 
Drift  with  the  winds,  while  thou  by  strength  of  arm, 
Makest  thy  way  in  swimming  to  the  land 
Of  the  Pheacians,  where  thy  safety  lies. 
Receive  this  veil  and  bind  its  heavenly  woof 
Beneath  thy  breast,  and  have  no  further  fear 


336  LATER  POEMS. 

Of  hardship  or  of  danger.     But,  as  soon 
As  thou  shall  touch  the  island,  take  it  off, 
And  turn  away  thy  face,  and  fling  it  far 
From  where  thou  standest,  into  the  black  deep." 

The  goddess  gave  the  veil  as  thus  she  spoke, 
And  to  the  tossing  deep  went  down,  in  form 
A  cormorant ;  the  black  wave  covered  her. 
But  still  Ulysses,  mighty  sufferer, 
Pondered,  and  thus  to  his  great  soul  he  said : 

"Ah  me !  perhaps  some  god  is  planning  here 
Some  other  fraud  against  me,  bidding  me 
Forsake  my  raft.     I  will  not  yet  obey, 
For  still  far  off  I  see  the  land  in  which 
'Tis  said  my  refuge  lies.     This  will  I  do, 
For  this  seems  wisest.     While  the  fastenings  last 
That  hold  these  timbers,  I  will  keep  my  place 
And  bide  the  tempest  here.     But  when  the  waves 
Shall  dash  my  raft  in  pieces,  I  will  swim, 
For  nothing  better  will  remain  to  do." 

As  he  revolved  this  purpose  in  his  mind, 
Earth-shaking  Neptune  sent  a  mighty  wave, 
Horrid,  and  huge,  and  high,  and  where  he  sat 
It  smote  him.     As  a  violent  wind  uplifts 
The  dry  chaff  heaped  upon  a  threshing-floor, 
And  sends  it  scattered  through  the  air  abroad, 
So  did  that  wave  fling  loose  the  ponderous  beams. 
To  one  of  these,  Ulysses,  clinging  fast, 
Bestrode  it,  like  a  horseman  on  his  steed ; 
And  now  he  took  the  garments  off,  bestowed 
By  fair  Calypso,  binding  round  his  breast 
The  veil,  and  forward  plunged  into  the  deep, 
With  palms  outspread,  prepared  to  swim.     Meanwhile, 
Neptune  beheld  him,  Neptune,  mighty  king, 
And  shook  his  head,  and  said  within  himself: 


FIFTH  BOOK  OF  HOMER'S  ODYSSEY.        337 

"Go  thus,  and,  laden  with  mischances,  roam 
The  waters,  till  thou  come  among  the  race 
Cherished  by  Jupiter ;  but  well  I  deem 
Thou  wilt  not  find  thy  share  of  suffering  light." 

Thus  having  spoke,  he  urged  his  coursers  on, 
With  their  fair-flowing  manes,  until  he  came 
To  yEgse,  where  his  glorious  palace  stands. 

But  Pallas,  child  of  Jove,  had  other  thoughts. 
She  stayed  the  course  of  every  wind  beside, 
And  bade  them  rest,  and  lulled  .them  into  sleep, 
But  summoned  the  swift  north  to  break  the  waves, 
That  so  Ulysses,  the  high-born,  escaped 
From  death  and  from  the  fates,  might  be  the  guest 
Of  the  Pheacians,  men  who  love  the  sea. 

Two  days  and  nights,  among  the  mighty  waves 
He  floated,  oft  his  heart  foreboding  death, 
But  when  the  bright-haired  Eos  had  fulfilled 
The  third  day's  course,  and  all  the  winds  were  laid, 
And  calm  was  on  the  watery  waste,  he  saw 
That  land  was  near,  as,  lifted  on  the  crest 
Of  a  huge  swell,  he  looked  with  sharpened  sight ; 
And  as  a  father's  life  preserved  makes  glad 
His  children's  hearts,  when  long  time  he  has  lain 
Sick,  wrung  with  pain,  and  wasting  by  the  power 
Of  some  malignant  genius,  till,  at  length, 
The  gracious  gods  bestow  a  welcome  cure ; 
So  welcome  to  Ulysses  was  the  sight 
Of  woods  and  fields.     By  swimming  on  he  thought 
To  climb  and  tread  the  shore,  but  when  he  drew 
So  near  that  one  who  shouted  could  be  heard 
From  land,  the  sound  of  ocean  on  the  rocks 
Came  to  his  ear,  for  there  huge  breakers  roared 
And  spouted  fearfully,  and  all  around 
Was  covered  with  the  sea-foam.     Haven  here 

29 


338  LATER  POEMS. 

Was  none  for  ships,  nor  sheltering  creek,  but  shores 
Beetling  from  high,  and  crags  and  walls  of  rock. 
Ulysses  trembled  both  in  knees  and  heart, 
And  thus,  to  his  great  soul,  lamenting,  said  : 

"  Now  woe  is  me !  as  soon  as  Jove  has  shown 
What  I  had  little  hoped  to  see,  the  land, 
And  I  through  all  these  waves  have  ploughed  my  way, 
I  find  no  issue  from  the  hoary  deep. 
For  sharp  rocks  border  it,  and  all  around 
Roar  the  wild  surges  ;  slippery  cliffs  arise 
Close  to  deep  gulfs,  and  footing  there  is  none, 
Where  I  might  plant  my  steps  and  thus  escape. 
All  effort  now  were  fruitless  to  resist 
The  mighty  billow  hurrying  me  away 
To  dash  me  on  the  pointed  rocks.     If  yet 
I  strive,  by  swimming  further,  to  descry 
Some  sloping  shore  or  harbor  of  the  isle, 
I  fear  the  tempest,  lest  it  hurl  me  back, 
Heavily  groaning,  to  the  fishy  deep. 
Or  huge  sea-monster,  from  the  multitude 
Which  sovereign  Amphitrite  feeds,  be  sent 
Against  me  by  some  god,  for  well  I  know 
The  power  who  shakes  the  shores  is  wroth  with  me." 

While  he  revolved  these  doubts  within  his  mind, 
A  huge  wave  hurled  him  toward  the  rugged  coast. 
Then  had  his  limbs  been  flayed,  and  all  his  bones 
Broken  at  once,  had  not  the  blue-eyed  maid, 
Minerva,  prompted  him.     Borne  toward  the  rock, 
lie  clutched  it  instantly,  with  both  his  hands, 
And  panting  clung  till  that  huge  wave  rolled  by, 
And  so  escaped  its  fury.    Back  it  came, 
And  smote  him  once  again,  and  flung  him  far 
Seaward.     As  to  the  claws  of  polypus, 
Plucked  from  its  bed,  the  pebbles  thickly  cling, 


FIFTH  BOOK  OF  HOMER'S   ODYSSEY. 

So  flakes  of  skin,  from  off  his  powerful  hands, 

Were  left  upon  the  rock.     The  mighty  surge 

O'erwhelmed  him ;  he  had  perished  ere  his  time, 

Hapless  Ulysses,  but  the  blue-eyed  maid, 

Pallas,  informed  his  mind  with  forecast.     Straight 

Emerging  from  the  wave  that  shoreward  rolled, 

He  swam  along  the  coast  and  eyed  it  well, 

In  hope  of  sloping  beach  or  sheltered  creek. 

But  when,  in  swimming,  he  had  reached  the  mouth 

Of  a  soft-flowing  river,  here  appeared 

The  spot  he  wished  for,  smooth,  without  a  rock, 

And  here  was  shelter  from  the  wind.     He  felt 

The  current's  flow,  and  thus  devoutly  prayed : 

"  Hear  me,  oh  sovereign  power,  whoe'er  thou  art ! 
To  thee,  the  long-desired,  I  come.     I  seek 
Escape  from  Neptune's  threatenings  on  the  sea. 
The  deathless  gods  respect  the  prayer  of  him 
Who  looks  to  them  for  help,  a  fugitive, 
As  I  am  now,  when  to  thy  stream  I  come, 
And  to  thy  knees,  from  many  a  hardship  past, 
Oh  thou  that  here  art  ruler,  I  declare 
Myself  thy  suppliant;  be  thou  merciful." 

He  spoke ;  the  river  stayed  his  current,  checked 
The  billows,  smoothed  them  to  a  calm,  and  gave 
The  swimmer  a  safe  landing  at  his  mouth. 
Then  dropped  his  knees  and  sinewy  arms,  at  once 
Unstrung,  for  faint  with  struggling  was  his  heart. 
His  body  was  all  swoln ;  the  brine  gushed  forth 
From  mouth  and  nostrils ;  all  unnerved  he  lay, 
Breathless  and  speechless ;  utter  weariness 
O'ermastered  him.     But  when  he  breathed  again, 
And  his  flown  senses  had  returned,  he  loosed 
The  veil  that  Ino  gave  him  from  his  breast, 
And  to  the  salt  flood  cast  it.     A  great  wave 


34° 


LATER  POEMS. 

Bore  it  far  down  the  stream ;  the  goddess  there 
In  her  own  hands  received  it.     He,  meanwhile, 
Withdrawing  from  the  brink,  lay  down  among 
The  reeds,  and  kissed  the  harvest-bearing  earth, 
And  thus  to  his  great  soul,  lamenting,  said : 

"Ah  me  !  what  must  I  suffer  more !  what  yet 
Will  happen  to  me  ?     If,  by  the  river's  side, 
I  pass  the  unfriendly  watches  of  the  night, 
The  cruel  cold  and  dews  that  steep  the  bank 
May,  in  this  weakness,  end  me  utterly, 
For  chilly  blows  the  river-air  at  dawn. 
But  should  I  climb  this  hill,  to  sleep  within 
The  shadowy  wood,  among  thick  shrubs,  if  cold 
And  weariness  allow  me,  then  I  fear, 
That,  while  the  pleasant  slumbers  o'er  me  steal, 
I  may  become  the  prey  of  savage  beasts." 

Yet,  as  he  longer  pondered,  this  seemed  best. 
He  rose  and  sought  the  wood,  and  found  it  near 
The  water,  on  a  height,  o'erlooking  far 
The  region  round.     Between  two  shrubs,  that  sprung 
Both  from  one  spot,  he  entered — olive-trees, 
One  wild,  one  fruitful.     The  damp-blowing  wind 
Ne'er  pierced  their  covert;  never  blazing  sun 
Darted  his  beams  within,  nor  pelting  shower 
Beat  through,  so  closely  intertwined  they  grew. 
Here  entering,  Ulysses  heaped  a  bed 
Of  leaves  with  his  own  hands ;  he  made  it  broad 
And  high,  for  thick  the  leaves  had  fallen  around. 
Two  men  and  three,  in  that  abundant  store, 
Might  bide  the  winter-storm,  though  keen  the  cold. 
Ulysses,  the  great  sufferer,  on  his  couch 
Looked  and  rejoiced,  and  placed  himself  within, 
And  heaped  the  leaves  high  o'er  him  and  around. 
As  one  who,  dwelling  in  the  distant  fields, 


THE  LITTLE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  SNOW. 

Without  a  neighbor  near  him,  hides  a  brand 

In  the  dark  ashes,  keeping  carefully 

The  seeds  of  fire  alive,  lest  he,  perforce, 

To  light  his  hearth  must  bring  them  from  afar ; 

So  did  Ulysses,  in  that  pile  of  leaves, 

Bury  himself,  while  Pallas  o'er  his  eyes 

Poured  sleep  and  closed  his  lids,  that  he  might  take, 

After  his  painful  toils,  the  fitting  rest. 


341 


THE   LITTLE   PEOPLE   OF   THE   SNOW. 

Alice. — One  of  your  old-world  stories,  Uncle  John, 
Such  as  you  tell  us  by  the  winter  fire, 
Till  we  all  wonder  it  has  grown  so  late. 

Uncle  John. — The  story  of  the  witch  that  ground  to  death 
Two  children  in  her  mill,  or  will  you  have 
The  tale  of  Goody  Cutpurse  ? 

Alice. —  Nay  now,  nay ; 

Those  stories  are  too  childish,  Uncle  John, 
Too  childish  even  for  little  Willy  here, 
And  I  am  older,  two  good  years,  than  he ; 
No,  let  us  have  a  tale  of  elves  that  ride, 
By  night,  with  jingling  reins,  or  gnomes  of  the  mine, 
Or  water-fairies,  such  as  you  know  how 
To  spin,  till  Willy's  eyes  forget  to  wink, 
And  good  Aunt  Mary,  busy  as  she  is, 
Lays  down  her  knitting. 

Uncle  John. —  Listen  to  me,  then. 

'Twas  in  the  olden  time,  long,  long  ago, 
And  long  before  the  great  oak  at  our  door 
Was  yet  an  acorn,  on  a  mountain's  side 
Lived,  with  his  wife,  a  cottager.     They  dwelt 


342 


LATER  POEMS. 

Beside  a  glen  and  near  a  dashing  brook, 
A  pleasant  spot  in  spring,  where  first  the  wren 
Was  heard  to  chatter,  and,  among  the  grass, 
Flowers  opened  earliest ;  but,  when  winter  came, 
That  little  brook  was  fringed  with  other  flowers, — 
White  flowers,  with  crystal  leaf  and  stem,  that  grew 
In  clear  November  nights.     And,  later  still, 
That  mountain-glen  was  filled  with  drifted  snows 
From  side  to  side,  that  one  might  walk  across. 
While,  many  a  fathom  deep,  below,  the  brook 
Sang  to  itself,  and  leaped  and  trotted  on 
Unfrozen,  o'er  its  pebbles,  toward  the  vale. 

Alice. — A  mountain-side,  you  said;  the  Alps,  perhaps, 
Or  our  own  Alleghanies. 

Uncle  John. —  Not  so  fast, 

My  young  geographer,  for  then  the  Alps, 
With  their  broad  pastures,  haply  were  untrod 
Of  herdsman's  foot,  and  never  human  voice 
Had  sounded  in  the  woods  that  overhang 
Our  Alleghany's  streams.     I  think  it  was 
Upon  the  slopes  of  the  great  Caucasus, 
Or  where  the  rivulets  cf  Ararat 
Seek  the  Armenian  vales .    That  mountain  rose 
So  high,  that,  on  its  top,  the  winter-snow 
Was  never  melted,  and  the  cottagers 
Among  the  summer-blossoms,  far  below, 
Saw  its  white  peaks  in  August  from  their  door. 

One  little  maiden,  in  that  cottage-home, 
Dwelt  with  her  parents,  light  of  heart  and  limb, 
Bright,  restless,  thoughtless,  flitting  here  and  there, 
Like  sunshine  on  the  uneasy  oceanTwaves, 
And  sometimes  she  forgot  what  she  was  bid, 
As  Alice  does. 

Alice. —          Or  Willy,  quite  as  oft. 


THE  LITTLE  PEOPLE   OF   THE  SNOW.       343 

Uncle  John. — But  you  are  older,  Alice,  two  good  years, 
And  should  be  wiser.     Eva  was  tile  name 
Of  this  young  maiden,  now  twelve  summers  old. 

Now  you  must  know  that,  in  those  early  times, 
When  autumn  days  grew  pale,  there  came  a  troop 
Of  childlike  forms  from  that  cold  mountain-top  ; 
With  trailing  garments  through  the  air  they  came, 
Or  walked  the  ground  with  girded  loins,  and  threw 
Spangles  of  silvery  frost  upon  the  grass, 
And  edged  the  brook  with  glistening  parapets, 
And  built  it  crystal  bridges,  touched  the  pool,  , 

And  turned  its  face  to  glass,  or,  rising  thence, 
They  shook  from  their  full  laps  the  soft,  light  snow, 
And  buried  the  great  earth,  as  autumn  winds 
Bury  the  forest-floor  in  heaps  of  leaves. 

A  beautiful  race  were  they,  with  baby  brows, 
And  fair,  bright  locks,  and  voices  like  the  sound 
Of  steps  on  the  crisp  snow,  in  which  they  talked 
With  man,  as  friend  with  friend,     A  merry  sight 
It  was,  when,  crowding  round  the  traveller, 
They  smote  him  with  their  heaviest  snow-flakes,  flung 
Needles  of  frost  in  handfuls  at  his  cheeks, 
And,  of  the  light  wreaths  of  his  smoking  breath, 
Wove  a  white  fringe  for  his  brown  beard,  and  laughed 
Their  slender  laugh  to  see  him  wink  and  grin 
And  make  grim  faces  as  he  floundered  on. 

But,  when  the  spring  came  on,  what  terror  reigned 
Among  these  Little  People  of  the  Snow ! 
To  them  the  sun's  warm  beams  were  shafts  of  fire, 
And  the  soft  south-wind  was  the  wind  of  death. 
Away  they  flew,  all  with  a  pretty  scowl 
Upon  their  childish  faces,  to  the  north, 
Or  scampered  upward  to  the  mountain's  top, 
And  there  defied  their  enemy,  the  Spring ; 


344 


LATER  POEMS. 

Skipping  and  dancing  on  the  frozen  peaks, 
And  moulding  little  snow-balls  in  their  palms, 
And  rolling  them,  to  crush  her  flowers  below, 
Down  the  steep  snow-fields. 

Alice. —  That,  too,  must  have  been 

A  merry  sight  to  look  at. 

Uncle  John. —  You  are  right, 

But  I  must  speak  of  graver  matters  now. 

Midwinter  was  the  time,  and  Eva  stood, 
Within  the  cottage,  all  prepared  to  dare 
The  outer  cold,  with  ample  furry  robe 
Close-belted  round  her  waist,  and  boots  of  fur, 
And  a  broad  kerchief,  which  her  mother's  hand 
Had  closely  drawn  about  her  ruddy  cheek. 
"  Now,  stay  not  long  abroad,"  said  the  good  dame, 
"  For  sharp  is  the  outer  air,  and,  mark  me  well, 
Go  not  upon  the  snow  beyond  the  spot 
Where  the  great  linden  bounds  the  neighboring  field." 

The  little  maiden  promised,  and  went  forth, 
And  climbed  the  rounded  snow-swells  firm  with  frost 
Beneath  her  feet,  and  slid,  with  balancing  arms, 
Into  the  hollows.     Once,  as  up  a  drift 
She  slowly  rose,  before  her,  in  the  way, 
She  saw  a  little  creature,  lily-cheeked, 
With  flowing  flaxen  locks,  and  faint  blue  eyes, 
That  gleamed  like  ice,  and  robs  that  only  seemed 
Of  a  more  shadowy  whiteness  than  her  cheek. 
On  a  smooth  bank  she  sat. 

Alice. —  She  must  have  been 

One  of  your  Little  People  of  the  Snow. 

Uncle  John. — She  was  so,  and,  as  Eva  now  drew  near, 
The  tiny  creature  bounded  from  her  seat ; 
"  And  come,"  she  said,  "my  pretty  friend;  to-day 
We  will  be  playmates.     I  have  watched  thee  long, 


THE  LITTLE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  SNOW.       345 

And  seen  how  well  thou  lov'st  to  walk  these  drift?, 

And  scoop  their  fair  sides  into  little  cells, 

And  carve  them  with  quaint  figures,  huge-limbecl  men, 

Lions,  and  griffins.     We  will  have,  to-day, 

A  merry  ramble  over  these  bright  fields, 

And  thou  shalt  see  what  thou  hast  never  seen." 

On  went  the  pair,  until  they  reached  the  bound 
Where  the  great  linden  stood,  set  deep  in  snow, 
.Up  to  the  lower  branches.     "  Here  we  stop," 
Said  Eva,  "for  my  mother  has  my  word 
That  I  will  go  no  farther  than  this  tree." 
Then  the  snow-maiden  laughed :   "  And  what  is  this  ?   • 
This  fear  of  the  pure  snow,  the  innocent  snow, 
That  never  harmed  aught  living  ?     Thou  mayst  roam 
For  leagues  beyond  this  garden,  and  return 
In  safety ;  here  the  grim  wolf  never  prowls, 
And  here  the  eagle  of  our  mountain-crags 
Preys  not  in  winter.     I  will  show  the  way, 
And  bring  thee  safely  home.     Thy  mother,  sure, 
Counselled  thee  thus  because  thou  hadst  no  guide." 

By  such  smooth  words  was  Eva  won  to  break 
Her  promise,  and  went  on  with  her  new  friend, 
Over  the  glistening  snow  and  down  a  bank 
Where  a  white  shelf,  wrought  by  the  eddying  wind, 
Like  to  a  billow's  crest  in  the  great  sea, 
Curtained  an  opening.     "  Look,  we  enter  here." 
And  straight,  beneath  the  fair  o'erhanging  fold, 
Entered  the  little  pair  that  hill  of  snow, 
Walking  along  a  passage  with  white  walls, 
And  a  white  vault  above  where  snow-stars  shed 
A  wintry  twilight.     Eva  moved  in  awe, 
And  held  her  peace,  but  the  snow-maiden  smiled, 
And  talked  and  tripped  along,  as  down  the  way, 
Deeper  they  went  into  that  mountainous  drift. 


LATER  POEMS. 

And  now  the  white  walls  widened,  and  the  vault 
Swelled  upward,  like  some  vast  cathedral-dome, 
Such  as  the  Florentine,  who  bore  the  name 
Of  heaven's  most  potent  angel,  reared,  long  since, 
Or  the  unknown  builder  of  that  wondrous  fane, 
The  glory  of  Burgos.     Here  a  garden  lay, 
In  which  the  Little  People  of  the  Snow 
Were  wont  to  take  their  pastime  when  their  tasks 
Upon  the  mountain's  side  and  in  the  clouds 
Were  ended.     Here  they  taught  the  silent  frost 
To  mock,  in  stem  and  spray,  and  leaf  and  flower, 
The  growths  of  summer.     Here  the  palm  upreared 
Its  white  columnar  trunk  and  spotless  sheaf 
Of  plume-like  leaves ;  here  cedars,  huge  as  those 
Of  Lebanon,  stretched  far  their  level  boughs, 
Yet  pale  and  shadowless ;  the  sturdy  oak 
Stood,  with  its  huge  gnarled  roots  of  seeming  strength, 
Fast  anchored  in  the  glistening  bank ;  light  sprays 
Of  myrtle,  roses  in  their  bud  and  bloom, 
Drooped  by  the  winding  walks ;  yet  all  seemed  wrought 
Of  stainless  alabaster ;  up  the  trees 
Ran  the  lithe  jessamine,  with  stalk  and  leaf 
Colorless  as  her  flowers.     "  Go  softly  on," 
Said  the  snow-maiden;   "  touch  not,  with  thy  hand, 
The  frail  creation  round  thee,  and  beware 
To  sweep  it  with  thy  skirts.     Now  look  above. 
How  sumptuously  these  bowers  are  lighted  up 
With  shifting  gleams  that  softly  come  and  go ! 
These  are  the  northern  lights,  such  as  thou  seest 
In  the  midwinter  nights,  cold,  wandering  flames, 
That  float  with  our  processions,  through  the  air ; 
And  here,  within  our  winter  palaces, 
Mimic  the  glorious  daybreak."     Then  she  told 
How,  when  the  wind,  in  the  long  winter  nights, 


THE  LITTLE  PEOPLE   OF   THE  SNOW.       347 

Swept  the  light  snows  into  the  hollow  dell, 
She  and  her  comrades  guided  to  its  place 
Each  wandering  flake,  and  piled  them  quaintly  up, 
In  shapely  colonnade  and  glistening  arch, 
With  shadowy  aisles  between,  or  bade  them  grow, 
Beneath  their  little  hands,  to  bowery  walks 
In  gardens  such  as  these,  and,  o'er  them  all, 
Built  the  broad  roof.     "  But  thou  hast  yet  to  see 
A  fairer  sight,"  she  said,  and  led  the  way 
To  where  a  window  of  pellucid  ice 
Stood  in  the  wall  of  snow,  beside  their  path. 
"  Look,  but  thou  mayst  not  enter."     Eva  looked, 
And  lo !  a  glorious  hall,  from  whose  high  vault 
Stripes  of  soft  light,  ruddy  and  delicate  green, 
And  tender  blue,  flowed  downward  to  the  floor 
And  far  around,  as  if  the  aerial  hosts, 
That  march  on  high  by  night,  with  beamy  spears, 
And  streaming  banners,  to  that  place  had  brought 
Their  radiant  flags  to  grace  a  festival. 
And  in  that  hall  a  joyous  multitude 
Of  these  by  whom  its  glistening  walls  were  reared, 
Whirled  in  a  merry  dance  to  silvery  sounds, 
That  rang  from  cymbals  of  transparent  ice, 
And  ice-cups,  quivering  to  the  skilful  touch 
Of  little  fingers.     Round  and  round  they  flew, 
As  when,  in  spring,  about  a  chimney-top, 
A  cloud  of  twittering  swallows,  just  returned, 
Wheel  round  and  round,  and  turn  and  wheel  again, 
Unwinding  their  swift  track.     So  rapidly 
Flowed  the  meandering  stream  of  that  fair  dance, 
Beneath  that  dome  of  light.     Bright  eyes  that  looked 
From  under  lily-brows,  and  gauzy  scarfs 
Sparkling  like  snow-wreaths  in  the  early  sun, 
Shot  by  the  window  in  their  mazy  whirl. 


348  LATER  POEMS. 

And  there  stood  Eva,  wondering  at  the  sight 

Of  those  bright  revellers  and  that  graceful  sweep 

Of  motion  as  they  passed  her  ; — long  she  gazed, 

And  listened  long  to  the  sweet  sounds  that  thrilled 

The  frosty  air,  till  now  the  encroaching  cold 

Recalled  her  to  herself.     "Too  long,  too  long 

I  linger  here,"  she  said,  and  then  she  sprang 

Into  the  path,  and  with  a  hurried  step 

Followed  it  upward.     Ever  by  her  side 

Her  little  guide  kept  pace.     As  on  they  went     x 

Eva  bemoaned  her  fault :   "  What  must  they  think — 

The  dear  ones  in  the  cottage,  while  so  long, 

Hour  after  hour,  I  stay  .without  ?     I  know 

That  they  will  seek  me  far  and  near,  and  weep 

To  find  me  not.     How  could  I,  wickedly, 

Neglect  the  charge  they  gave  me  ?  "    As  she  spoke, 

The  hot  tears  started  to  her  eyes ;  she  knelt 

In  the  mid-path.     "Father!  forgive  this  sin; 

Forgive  myself  I  cannot " — thus  she  prayed, 

And  rose  and  hastened  onward.    When,  at  last, 

They  reached  the  outer  air,  the  clear  north  breathed 

A  bitter  cold,  from  which  she  shrank  with  dread, 

But  the  snow-maiden  bounded  as  she  felt 

The  cutting  blast,  and  uttered  shouts  of  joy, 

And  skipped,  with  boundless  glee,  from  drift  to  drift, 

And  danced  round  Eva,  as  she  labored  up 

The  mounds  of  snow.     "  Ah  me !  I  feel  my  eyes 

Grow  heavy,"  Eva  said;   "  they  swim  with  sleep ; 

I  cannot  walk  for  utter  weariness, 

And  I  must  rest  a  moment  on  this  bank, 

But  let  it  not  be  long."    As  thus  she  spoke, 

In  half  formed  words,  she  sank  on  the  smooth  snow, 

With  closing  lids.     Her  guide  composed  the  robe 

Abouf  her  limbs,  and  said  :   "A  pleasant  spot 


THE  LITTLE  PEOPLE   OF  THE  SNOW.       349 

Is  this  to  slumber  in ;  on  such  a  couch 

Oft  have  I  slept  away  the  winter  night, 

And  had  the  sweetest  dreams."     So  Eva  slept, 

But  slept  in  death ;  for  when  the  power  of  frost 

Locks  up  the  motions  of  the  living  frame, 

The  victim  passes  to  the  realm  of  Death 

Through  the  dim  porch  of  Sleep.     The  little  guide, 

Watching  beside  her,  saw  the  hues  of  life 

Fade  from  the  fair  smooth  brow  and  rounded  cheek, 

As  fades  the  crimson  from  a  morning  cloud, 

Till  they  were  white  as  marble,  and  the  breath 

Had  ceased  to  come  and  go,  yet  knew  she  not 

At  first  that  this  was  death.     But  when  she  marked 

How  deep  the  paleness  was,  how  motionless 

That  once  lithe  form,  a  fear  came  over  her. 

She  strove  to  wake  the  sleeper,  plucked  her  robe, 

And  shouted  in  her  ear,  but  all  in  vain  ; 

The  life  had  passed  away  from  those  young  limbs. 

Then  the  snow-maiden  raised  a  wailing  cry, 

Such  as  the  dweller  in  some  lonely  wild, 

Sleepless  through  all  the  long  December  night, 

Hears  when  the  mournful  East  begins  to  blow. 

But  suddenly  was  heard  the  sound  of  steps, 
Grating  on  the  crisp  snow ;  the  cottagers 
Were  seeking  Eva ;  from  afar  they  saw 
The  twain,  and  hurried  toward  them.     As  they  came 
With  gentle  chidings  ready  on  their  lips, 
And  marked  that  deathlike  sleep,  and  heard  the  tale 
Of  the  snow-maiden,  mortal  anguish  fell 
Upon  their  hearts,  and  bitter  words  of  grief 
And  blame  were  uttered :  "  Cruel,  cruel  one, 
To  tempt  our  daughter  thus,  and  cruel  we, 
Who  suffered  her  to  wander  forth  alone 
In  this  fierce  cold  !  "    They  lifted  the  dear  child, 


LATER  POEMS. 

And  bore  her  home  and  chafed  her  tender  limbs, 
And  strove,  by  all  the  simple  arts  they  knew, 
To  make  the  chilled  blood  move,  and  win  the  breath 
Back  to  her  bosom ;  fruitlessly  they  strove  ; 
The  little  maid  was  dead.     In  blank  despair 
They  stood,  and  gazed  at  her  who  never  more 
Should  look  on  them.     "  Why  die  we  not  with  her  ?  " 
They  said;  "without  her,  life  is  bitterness." 

Now  came  the  funeral-day ;  the  simple  folk 
Of  all  that  pastoral  region  gathered  round 
To  share  the  sorrow  of  the  cottagers. 
They  carved  a  way  into  the  mound  of  snow 
To  the  glen's  side,  and  dug  a  little  grave 
In  the  smooth  slope,  and,  following  the  bier, 
In  long  procession  from  the  silent  door, 
Chanted  a  sad  and  solemn  melody. 

Lay  her  away  to  rest  within  the  ground." 
Yea,  lay  her  down  whose  pure  and  innocent  life 
Was  spotless  as  these  snows  ;  for  she  was  reared 
In  love,  and  passed  in  love  life's  pleasant  spring, 
And  all  that  now  our  tenderest  love  can  do 
Is  to  give  burial  to  her  lifeless  limbs." 

They  paused.     A  thousand  slender  voices  round, 
Like  echoes  softly  flung  from  rock  and  hill, 
Took  up  the  strain,  and  all  the  hollow  air 
Seemed  mourning  for  the  dead ;  for,  on  that  day, 
The  Little  People  of  the  Snow  had  come, 
From  mountain-peak,  and  cloud,  and  icy  hall, 
To  Eva's  burial.     As  the  murmur  died, 
The  funeral-train  renewed  the  solemn  chant : 

"Thou,  Lord,  hast  taken  her  to  be  with  Eve, 
Whose  gentle  name  was  given  her.     Even  so, 
For  so  Thy  wisdom  saw  that  it  was  best 
For  her  and  us.     We  bring  our  bleeding  hearts, 


THE  LITTLE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  SNOW. 

And  ask  the  touch  of  healing  from  Thy  hand, 
As,  with  submissive  tears,  we  render  back 
The  lovely  and  beloved  to  Him  who  gave." 

They  ceased.     Again  the  plaintive  murmur  rose. 
From  shadowy  skirts  of  low-hung  cloud  it  came, 
And  wide  white  fields,  and  fir-trees  capped  with  snow, 
Shivering  to  the  sad  sounds.     They  sank  away 
To  silence  in  the  dim-seen  distant  woods. 

The  little  grave  was  closed ;  the  funeral-train 
Departed ;  winter  wore  away ;  the  Spring 
Steeped,  with  her  quickening  rains,  the  violet-tufty, 
By  fond  hands  planted  where  the  maiden  slept. 
But,  after  Eva's  burial,  never  more 
The  Little  People  of  the  Snow  were  seen 
By  human  eye,  nor  ever  human  ear 
Heard  from  their  lips,  articulate  speech  again ; 
For  a  decree  went  forth  to  cut  them  off, 
Forever,  from  communion  with  mankind. 
The  winter-clouds,  along  the  mountain-side, 
Rolled  downward  toward  the  vale,  but  no  fair  form 
Leaned  from  their  folds,  and,  in  the  icy  glens, 
And  aged  woods,  under  snow-loaded  pines, 
Where  once  they  made  their  haunt,  was  emptiness. 

But  ever,  when  the  wintry  days  drew  near, 
Around  that  little  grave,  in  the  long  night, 
Frost-wreaths  were  laid  and  tufts  of  silvery  rime 
In  shape  like  blades  and  blossoms  of  the  field, 
As  one  would  scatter  flowers  upon  a  bier. 


351 


352 


LATER  POEMS. 


THE    POET. 

Tuou,  who  wouldst  wear  the  name 
Of  poet  mid  thy  brethren  of  mankind, 

And  clothe  in  words  of  flame 

Thoughts  that  shall  live  within  the  general  mind ! 

Deem  not  the  framing  of  a  deathless  lay 

The  pastime  of  a  drowsy  summer  day. 

But  gather  all  thy  powers, 

And  wreak  them  on  the  verse  that  thou  dost  weave, 
And  in  thy  lonely  hours, 

At  silent  morning  or  at  wakeful  eve, 
While  the  warm  current  tingles  through  thy  veins, 
Set  forth  the  burning  words  in  fluent  strains. 

No  smooth  array  of  phrase, 

Artfully  sought  and  ordered  though  it  be, 
Which  the  cold  rhymer  lays    -  * 

Upon  his  page  with  languid  industry, 
Can  wake  the  listless  pulse  to  livelier  speed, 
Or  fill  with  sudden  tears  the  eyes  that  read. 

The  secret  wouldst  thou  know 

To  touch  the  heart  or  fire  the  blood  at  will  ? 
Let  thine  own  eyes  o'erflow  ; 

Let  thy  lips  quiver  with  the  passionate  thrill ; 
Seize  the  great  thought,  ere  yet  its  power  be  past, 
And  bind,  in  words,  the  fleet  emotion  fast. 

Then,  should  thy  verse  appear 

Halting  and  harsh,  and  all  unaptly  wrought, 
Touch  the  crude  line  with  fear, 
,  Save  in  the  moment  of  impassioned  thought; 


THE  POET. 

Then  summon  back  the  original  glow,  and  mend 
The  strain  with  rapture  that  with  fire  was  penned. 

Yet  let  no  empty  gus 

Of  passion  find  an  utterance  in  thy  lay, 
A  blast  that  whirls  the  dust 

Along  the  howling  street  and  dies  away ; 
But  feelings  of  calm  power  and  mighty  sweep, 
Like  currents  journeying  through  the  windless  deep. 

Seek'st  thou,  in  living  lays, 

To  limn  the  beauty  of  the  earth  and  sky  ? 
Before  thine  inner  gaze 

Let  all  that  beauty  in  clear  vision  lie ; 
Look  on  it  with  exceeding  love,  and  write 
The  words  inspired  by  wonder  and  delight. 

Of  tempests  wouldst  thou  sing, 

Or  tell  of  battles— make  thyself  a  part 

Of  the  great  tumult ;  cling 

To  the  tossed  wreck  with  terror  in  thy  heart ; 

Scale,  with  the  assaulting  host,  the  rampart's  height, 

And  strike  and  struggle  in  the  thickest  fight. 

So  shalt  thou  frame  a  lay 

That  haply  may  endure  from  age  to  age, 
And  they  who  read  shall  say : 

"  What  witchery  hangs  upon  this  poet's  page ! 
What  art  is  his  the  written  spells  to  find 
That  sway  from  mood  to  mood  the  willing  mind !  " 


354 


LATER  POEMS. 


THE   PATH. 

THE  path  we  planned  beneath  October's  sky, 
Along  the  hill-side,  through  the  woodland  shade, 

Is  finished;  thanks  to  thee,  whose  kindly  eye 
Has  watched  me,  as  I  plied  the  busy  spade ; 

Else  had  I  wearied,  ere  this  path  of  ours 

Had  pierced  the  woodland  to  its  inner  bowers. 

Yet,  'twas  a  pleasant  toil  to  trace  and  beat, 
Among  the  glowing  trees,  this  winding  way, 

While  the  sweet  autumn  sunshine,  doubly  sweet, 
Flushed  with  the  ruddy  foliage,  round  us  lay, 

As  if  some  gorgeous  cloud  of  morning  stood, 

In  glory,  mid  the  arches  of  the  wood. 

A  path !  what  beauty  does  a  path  bestow 
Even  on  the  dreariest  wild !  its  savage  nooks 

Seem  homelike  where  accustomed  footsteps  go, 
And  the  grim  rock  puts  on  familiar  looks. 

The  tangled  swamp,  through  which  a  pathway  strays, 

Becomes  a  garden  with  strange  flowers  and  sprays. 

See,  from  the  weedy  earth  a  rivulet  break 
And  purl  along  the  untrodden  wilderness ; 

There  the  shy  cuckoo  comes  his  thirst  to  slake, 
There  the  shrill  jay  alights  his  plumes  to  dress  ; 

And  there  the  stealthy  fox,  when  morn  is  gray, 

Laps  the  clear  stream  and  lightly  moves  away. 

But  let  a  path  approach  that  fountain's  brink, 
And  nobler  forms  of  life,  behold !  are  there : 

Boys  kneeling  with  protruded  lips  to  drink, 
And  slender  maids  that  homeward  slowly  bear 


THE  PATH.  355 

The  brimming  pail,  and  busy  dames  that  lay 
Their  webs  to  whiten  in  the  summer  ray. 

Then  know  we  that  for  herd  and  flock  are  poured 
Those  pleasant  streams  that  o'er  the  pebbles  slip; 

Those  pure  sweet  waters  sparkle  on  the  board ; 
Those  fresh  cool  waters  wet  the  sick  man's  lip; 

Those  clear  bright  waters  from  the  font  are  shed, 

In  dews  of  baptism,  on  the  infant's  head. 

What  different  steps  the  rural  footway  trace  ! 

The  laborer  afield  at  early  day ; 
The  schoolboy  sauntering  with  uneven  pace ; 

The  Sunday  worshipper  in  fresh  array ; 
And  mourner  in  the  weeds  of  sorrow  drest ; 
And,  smiling  to  himself,  the  wedding  guest. 

There  he  who  cons  a  speech  and  he  who  hums 

His  yet  unfinished  verses,  musing  walk. 
There,  with  her  little  brood,  the  matron  comes, 

To  break  the  spring  flower  from  its  juicy  stalk ; 
And  lovers,  loitering,  wonder  that  the  moon 
Has  risen  upon  their  pleasant  stroll  so  soon. 

Bewildered  in  vast  woods,  the  traveller  feels 

His  heavy  heart  grow  lighter,  if  he  meet 
The  traces  of  a  path,  and  straight  he  kneels, 

And  kisses  the  dear  print  of  human  feet, 
And  thanks  his  God,  and  journeys  without  fear, 
For  now  he  knows  the  abodes  of  men  are  near. 

Pursue  the  slenderest  path  across  a  lawn  : 

Lo !  on  the  broad  highway  it  issues  forth, 
And,  blended  with  the  greater  track,  goes  on, 

Over  the  surface  of  the  mighty  earth, 


356 


LATER   POEMS.       . 

Climbs  hills  and  crosses  vales,  and  stretches  far, 
Through  silent  forests,  toward  the  evening  star — 

And  enters  cities  murmuring  with  the  feet 
Of  multitudes,  and  wanders  forth  again, 

And  joins  the  climes  of  frost  to  climes  of  heat, 
Binds  East  to  West,  and  marries  main  to  main, 

Nor  stays  till  at  the  long-resounding  shore 

Of  the  great  deep,  where  paths  are  known  no  more. 

Oh,  mighty  instinct,  that  dost  thus  unite 

Earth's  neighborhoods  and  tribes  with  friendly  bands, 
What  guilt  is  theirs  who,  in  their  greed  or  spite, 

Undo  thy  holy  work  with  violent  hands ! 
And  post  their  squadrons,  nursed  in  war's  grim  trade, 
To  bar  the  ways  for  mutual  succor  made. 


THE   RETURN   OF   THE   BIRDS. 

I  HEAR,  from  many  a  little  throat, 

A  warble  interrupted  long ; 
I  hear  the  robin's  flute-like  note, 

The  bluebird's  slenderer  song. 

Brown  meadows  and  the  russet  hill, 
Not  yet  the  haunt  of  grazing  herds, 

And  thickets  by  the  glimmering  rill, 
Are  all  alive  with  birds. 

Oh  choir  of  spring,  why  come  so  soon  ? 

On  leafless  grove  and  herbless  lawn 
Warm  lie  the  yellow  beams  of  noon ; 

Yet  winter  is  not  gone. 


THE  RETURN  OF   THE  BIRDS.  357 

For  frost  shall  sheet  the  pools  again ; 
.     Again:  the  blustering  East  shall  blow — 
Whirl  a  white  tempest  through  the  glen, 
And  load  the  pines  with  snow. 

Yet,  haply,  from  the  region  where, 
Waked  by  an  earlier  spring  than  here, 

The  blossomed  wild-plum  scents  the  air, 
Ye  come  in  haste  and  fear. 

For  there  is  heard  the  bugle-blast, 

The  booming  gun,  the  jarring  drum, 
And  on  their  chargers,  spurring  fast, 

Armed  warriors  go  and  come. 

There  mighty  hosts  have  pitched  the  camp 

In  valleys  that  were  yours  till  then, 
And  Earth  has  shuddered  to  the  tramp 

Of  half  a  million  men  ! 

In  groves  where  once  ye  used  to  sing, 

In  orchards  where  ye  had  your  birth, 
A  thousand  glittering  axes  swing 

To  smite  the  trees  to  earth. 

Ye  love  the  fields  by  ploughmen  trod; 

But  there,  when  sprouts  the  beechen  sprny, 
The  soldier  only  breaks  the  sod 

To  hide  the  slain  away. 

Stay,  then,  beneath  our  ruder  sky  ; 

Heed  not  the  storm-clouds  rising  black, 
Nor  yelling  winds  that  with  them  fly; 

Nor  let  them  fright  you  back, — 


358  LATER  POEMS. 

Back  to  the  stifling  battle-cloud, 
To  burning  towns  that  blot  the  day, 

And  trains  of  mounting  dust  that  shroud 
The  armies  on  their  way. 

Stay,  for  a  tint  of  green  shall  creep 
Soon  o'er  the  orchard's  grassy  floor, 

And  from  its  bed  the  crocus  peep 
Beside  the  housewife's  door. 

Here  build,  and  dread  no  harsher  sound, 
To  scare  you  from  the  sheltering  tree, 

Than  winds  that  stir  the  branches  round, 
And  murmur  of  the  bee. 

And  we  will  pray  that,  ere  again 

The  flowers  of  autumn  bloom  and  die, 

Our  generals  and  their  strong-armed  men 
May  lay  their  weapons  by. 

Then  may  ye  warble,  unafraid, 

Where  hands,  that  wear  the  fetter  now, 

Free  as  your  wings  shall  ply  the  spade, 
And  guide  the  peaceful  plough. 

Then,  as  our  conquering  hosts  return, 
What  shouts  of  jubilee  shall  break 

From  placid  vale  and  mountain  stern, 
And  shore  of  mighty  lake ! 

And  midland  plain  and  ocean-strand 
Shall  thunder  :  "  Glory  to  the  brave, 

Peace  to  the  torn  and  bleeding  land, 
And  freedom  to  the  slave  !  " 

March,  1864. 


"HE  HATH  PUT  ALL   THINGS."  359 

"HE   HATH   PUT   ALL   THINGS    UNDER    HIS 
FEET." 

O  NORTH,  with  all  thy  vales  of  green  ! 

O  South,  with  all  thy  palms  ! 
From  peopled  towns  and  fields  between 

Uplift  the  voice  of  psalms  ; 
Raise,  ancient  East,  the  anthem  high, 
And  let  the  youthful  West  reply. 

Lo !  in  the  clouds  of  heaven  appears 

God's  well-beloved  Son ; 
He  brings  a  train  of  brighter  years  : 

His  kingdom  is  begun. 
He  comes,  a  guilty  world  to  bless 
With  mercy,  truth,  and  righteousness. 

Oh,  Father  !  haste  the  promised  hour, 

When,  at  His  feet,  shall  lie 
All  rule,  authority,  and  power, 

Beneath  the  ample  sky ; 
When  He  shall  reign  from  pole  to  pole, 
The  lord  of  every  human  soul 

When  all  shall  heed  the  words  He  said 

Amid  their  daily  cares, 
And,  by  the  loving  life  He  led, 

Shall  seek  to  pattern  theirs  ; 
And  He,  who  conquered  Death,  shall  win 
The  nobler  conquest  over  Sin. 


360  LATER  POEMS. 


MY   AUTUMN   WALK. 

ON  woodlands  ruddy  with  autumn 

The  amber  sunshine  lies  ; 
I  look  on  the  beauty  round  me, 

And  tears  come  into  my  eyes. 

For  the  wind  that  sweeps  the  meadows 
Blows  out  of  the  far  Southwest, 

Where  our  gallant  men  are  fighting, 
And  the  gallant  dead  are  at  rest. 

The  golden-rod  is  leaning, 
And  the  purple  aster  waves 

In  a  breeze  from  the  land  of  battles, 
A  breath  from  the  land  of  graves. 

Full  fast  the  leaves  are  dropping 
Before  that  wandering  breath  ; 

As  fast,  on  the  field  of  battle, 
Our  brethren  fall  in  death. 

Beautiful  over  my  pathway 

The  forest  spoils  are  shed ; 
They  are  spotting  the  grassy  hillocks 

With  purple  and  gold  and  red. 

Beautiful  is  the  death-sleep 

Of  those  who  bravely  fight 
In  their  country's  holy  quarrel, 

And  perish  for  the  Right. 


MY  AUTUMN  WALK.  361 

But  who  shall  comfort  the  living, 

The  light  of  whose  homes  is  gone  : 
The  bride  that,  early  widowed, 

Lives  broken-hearted  on ; 

The  matron  whose  sons  are  lying 

In  graves  on  a  distant  shore  ; 
The  maiden,  whose  promised  husband 

Comes  back  from  the  war  no  more  ? 

I  look  on  the  peaceful  dwellings 

Whose  windows  glimmer  in  sight, 
With  croft  and  garden  and  orchard, 

That  bask  in  the  mellow  light ; 

And  I  know  that,  when  our  couriers 

With  news  of  victory  come, 
They  will  bring  a  bitter  message 

Of  hopeless  grief  to  some. 

Again  I  turn  to  the  woodlands, 

And  shudder  as  I  see 
The  mock-grape's  blood-red  banner 

Hung  out  on  the  cedar-tree  ; 

And  I  think  of  days  of  slaughter, 

And  the  night-sky  red  with  flames, 
On  the  Chattahoochee's  meadows, 

And  the  wasted  banks  of  the  James. 

Oh,  for  the  fresh  spring-season, 

When  the  groves  are  in  their  prime ; 
And  far  away  in  the  future 

Is  the  frosty  autumn-time  ! 

31 


362  LATER  POEMS. 

Oh,  for  that  better  season, 
When  the  prrde  of  the  foe  shall  yield, 

And  the  hosts  of  God  and  Freedom 
March  back  from  the  well-won  field ; 

And  the  matron  shall  clasp  her  first-born 
With  tears  of  joy  and  pride ; 

And  the  scarred  and  war-worn  lover 
Shall  claim  his  promised  bride  ! 

The  leaves  are  swept  from  the  branches ; 

But  the  living  buds  are  there, 
With  folded  flower  and  foliage, 

To  sprout  in  a  kinder  air. 
October,  1864. 


DANTE. 

WHO,  mid  the  grasses  of  the  field 
That  spring  beneath  our  careless  feet, 

First  found  the  shining  stems  that  yield 
The  grains  of  life-sustaining  wheat : 

Who  first,  upon  the  furrowed  land, 

Strewed  the  bright  grains  to  sprout,  and  grow, 
And  ripen  for  the  reaper's  hand — 

We  know  not,  and  we  cannot  know. 

But  well  we  know  the  hand  that  brought 
And  scattered,  far  as  sight  can  reach, 

The  seeds  of  free  and  living  thought 
On  the  broad  field  of  modern  speech. 


THE  DEATH  OF  LINCOLN. 

Mid  the  white  hills  that  round  us  lie, 
We  cherish  that  Great  Sower's  fame, 

And,  as  we  pile  the  sheaves  on  high, 
With  awe  we  utter  Dante's  name. 

Six  centuries,  since  the  poet's  birth, 

Have  come  and  flitted  o'er  our  sphere 
The  richest  harvest  reaped  on  earth 

Crowns  the  last  century's  closing  year. 
1865. 


THE  DEATH   OF   LINCOLN. 

OH,  slow  to  smite  and  swift  to  spare, 
Gentle  and  merciful  and  just ! 

Who,  in  the  fear  of  God,  didst  bear 
The  sword  of  power,  a  nation's  trust ! 

In  sorrow  by  thy  bier  we  stand, 
Amid  the  awe  that  hushes  all, 

And  speak  the  anguish  of  a  land 
That  shook  with  horror  at  thy  fall. 

Thy  task  is  done  ;  the  bond  are  free : 
We  bear  thee  to  an  honored  grave, 

Whose  proudest  monument  shall  be 
The  broken  fetters  of  the  slave. 

Pure  was  thy  life ;  its  bloody  close 

Hath  placed  thee  with  the  sons  of  light, 

Among  the  noble  host  of  those 

Who  perished  in  the  cause  of  Right. 
April,  1865. 


364  LATER  POEMS. 


THE   DEATH   OF   SLAVERY. 

O  THOU  great  Wrong,  that,  through  the  slow-paced  years, 
Didst  hold  thy  millions  fettered,  and  didst  wield 
The  scourge  that  drove  the  laborer  to  the  field, 

And  turn  a  stony  gaze  on  human  tears, 
Thy  cruel  reign  is  o'er; 
Thy  bondmen  crouch  no  more 

In  terror  at  the  menace  of  thine  eye ; 

For  He  who  marks  the  bounds  of  guilty  power, 

Long-suffering,  hath  heard  the  captive's  cry, 
And  touched  his  shackles  at  the  appointed  hour, 

And  lo  !  they  fall,  and  he  whose  limbs  they  galled 

Stands  in  his  native  manhood,  disenthralled. 

A  shout  of  joy  from  the  redeemed  is  sent; 

Ten  thousand  hamlets  swell  the  hymn  of  thanks ; 

Our  rivers  roll  exulting,  and  their  banks 
Send  up  hosannas  to  the  firmament ! 

Fields  where  the  bondman's  toil 
No  more  shall  trench  the  soil, 
Seem  now  to  bask  in  a  serener  day; 

The  meadow-birds  sing  sweeter,*  and  the  airs 
Of  heaven  with  more  caressing  softness  play, 

Welcoming  man  to  liberty  like  theirs. 
A  glory  clothes  the  land  from  sea  to  sea, 
For  the  great  land  and  all  its  coasts  are  free. 

Within  that  land  wert  thou  enthroned  of  late, 
And  they  by  whom  the  nation's  laws  were  made, 
And  they  who  filled  its  judgment-seats  obeyed 

Thy  mandate,  rigid  as  the  will  of  Fate. 


THE  DEATH  OF  SLAVERY.  365 

Fierce  men  at  thy  right  hand, 
With  gesture  of  command, 
Gave  forth  the  word  that  none  might  dare  gainsay; 

And  grave  and  reverend  ones,  who  loved  thee  not, 
Shrank  from  thy  presence,  and  in  blank  dismay 

Choked  down,  unuttered,  the  rebellious  thought ; 
While  meaner  cowards,  mingling  with  thy  train, 
Proved,  from  the  book  of  God,  thy  right  to  reign. 

Great  as  thou  wert,  and  feared  from  shore  to  shore, 

The  wrath  of  Heaven  o'ertook  thee  in  thy  pride  ; 

Thou  sitt'st  a  ghastly  shadow  ;  by  thy  side 
Thy  once  strong  arms  hang  nerveless  evermore. 
And  they  who  quailed  but  now 
Before  thy  lowering  brow, 
Devote  thy  memory  to  scorn  and  shame, 

And  scoff  at  the  pale,  powerless  thing  thou  art. 
And  they  who  ruled  in  thine  imperial  name, 

Subdued,  and  standing  sullenly  apart, 
Scowl  at  the  hands  that  overthrew  thy  reign, 
And  shattered  at  a  blow  the  prisoner's  chain. 

Well  was  thy  doom  deserved ;  thou  didst  not  spare 

Life's  tenderest  ties,  but  cruelly  didst  part 

Husband  and  wife,  and  from  the  mother's  heart 
Didst  wrest  her  children,  deaf  to  shriek  and  prayer ; 
Thy  inner  lair  became" 
The  haunt  of  guilty  shame ; 
Thy  lash  dropped  blood ;  the  murderer,  at  thy  side, 

Showed  his  red  hands,  nor  feared  the  vengeance  due. 
Thou  didst  sow  earth  with  crimes,  and,  far  and  wide, 

A  harvest  of  uncounted  miseries  grew, 
Until  the  measure  of  thy  sins  at  last 
Was  full,  and  then  the  avenging  bolt  was  cast ! 


3  66  LATER  POEMS. 

Go  now,  accursed  of  God,  and  take  thy  place 
With  hateful  memories  of  the  elder  time, 
With  many  a  wasting  plague,  and  nameless  crime, 

And  bloody  war  that  thinned  the  human  race  ; 
With  the  Black  Death,  whose  way 
Through  wailing  cities  lay, 

Worship  of  Moloch,  tyrannies  that  built 
The  Pyramids,  and  cruel  creeds  that  taught 

To  avenge  a  fancied  guilt  by  deeper  guilt — 
Death  at  the  stake  to  those  that  held  them  not. 

Lo !  the  foul  phantoms,  silent  in  the  gloom 

Of  the  flown  ages,  part  to  yield  thee  room. 

I  see  the  better  years  that  hasten  by 
Carry  thee  back  into  that  shadowy  past, 
Where,  in  the  dusty  spaces,  void  and  vast, 
The  graves  of  those  whom  thou  hast  murdered  lie. 
The  slave-pen,  through  whose  door 
Thy  victims  pass  no  more, 
Is  there,  and  there  shall  the  grim  block  remain 

At  which  the  slave  was  sold ;  while  at  thy  feet 
Scourges  and  engines  of  restraint  and  pain 

Moulder  and  rust  by  thine  eternal  seat. 
There,  mid  the  symbols  that  proclaim  thy  crimes, 
Dwell  thou,  a  warning  to  the  coming  times. 
May,  1866. 


"RECEIVE   THY   SIGHT." 

WHEN  the  blind  suppliant  in  the  way, 
By  friendly  hands  to  Jesus  led, 

Prayed  to  behold  the  light  of  day, 

"  Receive  thy  sight,"  the  Saviour  said. 


A  BRIGHTER  DAY. 

At  once  he  saw  the  pleasant  rays 
That  lit  the  glorious  firmament ; 

And,  with  firm  step  and  words  of  praise, 
He  followed  where  the  Master  went. 

Look  down  in  pity,  Lord,  we  pray, 
On  eyes  oppressed  by  moral  night, 

And  touch  the  darkened  lids  and  say 
The  gracious  words,  "  Receive  thy  sight." 

Then,  in  clear  daylight,  shall  we  see 
Where  walked  the  sinless  Son  of  God ; 

And,  aided  by  new  strength  from  Thee, 
Press  onward  in  the  path  He  trod. 


A   BRIGHTER   DAY. 

FROM  THE  SPANISH. 

HARNESS  the  impatient  Years, 
O  Time !  and  yoke  them  to  the  imperial  car ; 

For,  through  a  mist  of  tears, 

The  brighter  day  appears, 
Whose  early  blushes  tinge  the  hills  afar. 

A  brighter  day  for  thee, 
O  realm  !  whose  glorious  fields  are  spread  between 

The  dark-blue  Midland  Sea 

And  that  immensity 
Of  Western  waters  which  once  hailed  thee  queen  ! 


36? 


368  LATER  POEMS. 

The  fiery  coursers  fling 
Their  necks  aloft,  and  snuff  the  morning  wind, 

Till  the  fleet  moments  bring 

The  expected  sign  to  spring 
Along  their  path,  and  leave  these  glooms  behind. 

Yoke  them,  and  yield  the  reins 
To  Spain,  and  lead  her  to  the  lofty  seat ; 
But,  ere  she  mount,  the  chains 
Whose  cruel  strength  constrains 
Her  limbs  must  fall  in  fragments  at  her  feet. 

A  tyrant  brood  have  wound 
About  her  helpless  limbs  the  steely  braid, 
And  toward  a  gulf  profound 
They  drag  her,  gagged  and  bound, 
Down  among  dead  men's  bones,  and  frost  and  shade. 

O  Spain !  thou  wert  of  yore 
The  wonder  of  the  realms ;  in  prouder  years 

Thy  haughty  forehead  wore, 

What  it  shall  wear  no  more, 
The  diadem  of  both  the  hemispheres. 

To  thee  the  ancient  Deep 
Revealed  his  pleasant,  undiscovered  lands  ; 
From  mines  where  jewels  sleep, 
Tilled  plain  and  vine-clad  steep, 
Earth's  richest  spoil  was  offered  to  thy  hands. 

Yet  thou,  when  land  and  sea 
Sent  thee  their  tribute  with  each  rolling  wave, 

And  kingdoms  crouched  to  thee, 

Wert  false  to  Liberty, 
And  therefore  art  thou  now  a  shackled  slave. 


AMONG   THE    TREES.  369 

Wilt  thou  not,  yet  again, 
Put  forth  the  sleeping  strength  that  in  thee  lies, 

And  snap  the  shameful  chain, 

And  force  that  tyrant  train 
To  flee  before  the  anger  in  thine  eyes  ? 

Then  shall  the  harnessed  Years 
Sweep  onward  with  thee  to  that  glorious  height 
Which  even  now  appears 
Bright  through  the  mist  of  tears, 
The  dwelling-place  of  Liberty  and  Light. 
October,  1867. 


AMONG   THE   TREES. 

OH  ye  who  love  to  overhang  the  springs, 

And  stand  by  running  waters,  ye  whose  boughs 

Make  beautiful  the  rocks  o'er  which  they  play, 

Who  pile  with  foliage  the  great  hills,  and  rear 

A  paradise  upon  the  lonely  plain, 

Trees  of  the  forest,  and  the  open  field ! 

Have  ye  no  sense  of  being?     Does  the  air, 

The  pure  air,  which  I  breathe  with  gladness,  pass 

In  gushes  o'er  your  delicate  lungs,  your  leaves, 

All  unenjoyed?     When  on  your  winter  sleep 

The  sun  shines  warm,  have  ye  no  dreams  of  spring? 

And  when  the  glorious  spring-time  comes  at  last, 

Have  ye  no  joy  of  all  your  bursting  buds, 

And  fragrant  blooms,  and  melody  of  birds 

To  which  your  young  leaves  shiver?     Do  ye  strive 

And  wrestle  with  the  wind,  yet  know  it  not  ? 

Feel  ye  no  glory  in  your  strength  when  he, 


LATER  POEMS. 

The  exhausted  Blusterer,  flies  beyond  the  hills, 
And  leaves  you  stronger  yet  ?     Or  have  ye  not 
A  sense  of  loss  when  he  has  stripped  your  leaves, 
Yet  tender,  and  has  splintered  your  fair  boughs  ? 
Does  the  loud  bolt  that  smites  you  from  the  cloud 
And  rends  you,  fall  unfelt  ?    Do  there  not  run 
Strange  shudderings  through  your  fibres  when  the  axe 
Is  raised  against  you,  and  the  shining  blade 
Deals  blow  on  blow,  until,  with  all  their  boughs, 
Your  summits  waver  and  ye  fall  to  earth  ? 
Know  ye  no  sadness  when  the  hurricane 
Has  swept  the  wood  and  snapped  its  sturdy  stems 
Asunder,  or  has  wrenched,  from  out  the  soil, 
The  mightiest  with  their  circles  of  strong  roots, 
And  piled  the  ruin  all  along  his  path  ? 

Nay,  doubt  we  not  that  under  the  rough  rind, 
In  the  green  veins  of  these  fair  growths  of  earth, 
There  dwells  a  nature  that  receives  delight 
From  all  the  gentle  processes  of  life, 
And  shrinks  from  loss  of  being.     Dim  and  faint 
May  be  the  sense  of  pleasure  and  of  pain, 
As  in  our  dreams ;  but,  haply,  real  still. 

Our  sorrows  touch  you  not.     We  watch  beside 
The  beds  of  those  who  languish  or  who  die, 
And  minister  in  sadness,  while  our  hearts 
Ofler  perpetual  prayer  for  life  and  ease 
And  health  to  the  beloved  sufferers. 
But  ye,  while  anxious  fear  and  fainting  hope 
Are  in  our  chambers,  ye  rejoice  without. 
The  funeral  goes  forth ;  a  silent  train 
Moves  slowly  from  the  desolate  home ;  our  hearts 
Are  breaking  as  we  lay  away  the  loved, 


AMONG   THE   TREES.  37! 

Whom  we  shall  see  no  more,  in  their  last  rest, 

Their  little  cells  within  the  burial-place. 

Ye  have  no  part  in  this  distress  ;  for  still 

The  February  sunshine  steeps  your  boughs 

And  tints  the  buds  and  swells  the  leaves  within  ; 

While  the  song-sparrow,  warbling  from  her  perch, 

Tells  you  that  spring  is  near.     The  wind  of  May 

Is  sweet  with  breath  of  orchards,  in  whose  boughs 

The  bees  and  every  insect  of  the  air 

Make  a  perpetual  murmur  of  delight, 

And  by  whose  flowers  the  humming-bird  hangs  poised 

In  air,  and  draws  their  sweets  and  darts  away. 

The  linden,  in  the  fervors  of  July, 

Hums  with  a  louder  concert.     When  the  wind 

Sweeps  the  broad,  forest  in  its  summer  prime, 

As  when  some  master-hand  exulting  sweeps 

The  keys  of  some  great  organ,  ye  give  forth 

The  music  of  the  woodland  depths,  a  hymn 

Of  gladness  and  of  thanks.     The  hermit-thrush 

Pipes  his  sweet  note  to  make  your  arches  ring. 

The  faithful  robin,  from  the  wayside  elm, 

Carols  all  day  to  cheer  his  sitting  mate, 

And  when  the  autumn  comes,  the  kings  of  earth, 

In  all  their  majesty,  are  not  arrayed 

As  ye  are,  clothing  the  broad  mountain-side 

And  spotting  the  smooth  vales  with  red  and  gold. 

While,  swaying  to  the  sudden  breeze,  ye  fling 

Your  nuts  to  earth,  and  the  brisk  squirrel  comes 

To  gather  them,  and  barks  with  childish  glee, 

And  scampers  with  them  to  his  hollow  oak. 

Thus,  as  the  seasons  pass,  ye  keep  alive 
The  cheerfulness  of  Nature,  till  in  time 
The  constant  misery  which  wrings  the  heart 


372  LATER  POEMS. 

Relents,  and  we  rejoice  with  you  again, 
And  glory  in  your  beauty ;  till  once  more 
We  look  with  pleasure  on  your  varnished  leaves, 
That  gayly  glance  in  sunshine,  and  can  hear, 
Delighted,  the  soft  answer  which  your  boughs 
Utter  in  whispers  to  the  babbling  brook. 

Ye  have  no  history.     I  cannot  know 
Who,  when  the  hill-side  trees  were  hewn  away, 
Haply  two  centuries  since,  bade  spare  this  oak, 
Leaning  to  shade,  with  his  irregular  arms, 
Low-bent  and  long,  the  fount  that  from  his  roots 
Slips  through  a  bed  of  cresses  toward  the  bay, 
I  know  not  who,  but  thank  him  that  he  left 
The  tree  to  flourish  where  the  acorn  fell. 
And  join  these  later  days  to  that  far  time 
While  yet  the  Indian  hunter  drew  the  bow 
In  the  dim  woods,  and  the  white  woodman  first 
Opened  these  fields  to  sunshine,  turned  the  soil 
And  strewed  the  wheat.     An  unremembered  Past 
Broods,  like  a  presence,  'mid  the  long  gray  boughs 
Of  this  old  tree,  which  has  outlived  so  long 
The  flitting  generations  of  mankind. 

Ye  have  no  history.     I  ask  in  vain 
Who  planted  on  the  slope  this  lofty  group 
Of  ancient  pear-trees  that  with  spring-time  burst 
Into  such  breadth  of  bloom.     One  bears  a  scar 
Where  the  quick  lightning  scored  its  trunk,  yet  still 
It  feels  the  breath  of  Spring,  and  every  May 
Is  white  with  blossoms.     Who  it  was  that' laid 
Their  infant  roots  in  earth,  and  tenderly 
Cherished  the  delicate  sprays,  I  ask  in  vain, 
Yet  bless  the  unknown  hand  to  which  I  owe 


AMONG   THE   TREES.  373 

This  annual  festival  of  bees,  these  songs 
Of  birds  within  their  leafy  screen,  these  shouts 
Of  joy  from  children  gathering  up  the  fruit 
Shaken  in  August  from  the  willing  boughs. 

Ye  that  my  hands  have  planted,  or  have  spared, 
Beside  the  way,  or  in  the  orchard-ground, 
Or  in  the  open  meadow,  ye  whose  boughs  » 

With  every  summer  spread  a  wider  shade, 
Whose  herd  in  coming  years  shall  lie  at  rest 
Beneath  your  noontide  shelter  ?  who  shall  pl^ick 
Your  ripened  fruit  ?  who  grave,  as  was  the  wont 
Of  simple  pastoral  ages,  on  the  rind 
Of  my  smooth  beeches  some  beloved  name  ? 
Idly  I  ask ;  yet  may  the  eyes  that  look 
Upon  you,  in  your  later,  nobler  growth, 
Look  also  on  a  nobler  age  than  ours  ; 
An  age  when,  in  the  eternal  strife  between 
Evil  and  Good,  the  Power  of  Good  shall  win 
A  grander  mastery ;  when  kings  no  more 
Shall  summon  millions  from  the  plough  to  learn 
The  trade  of  slaughter,  and  of  populous  realms 
Make  camps  of  war ;  when  in  our  younger  land 
The  hand  of  ruffian  Violence,  that  now 
Is  insolently  raised  to  smite,  shall  fall 
Unnerved  before  the  calm  rebuke  of  Law, 
And  Fraud,  his  sly  confederate,  shrink,  in  shame, 
Back  to  his  covert,  and  forego  his  prey. 


LATER  POEMS. 


MAY  EVENING. 

THE  breath  of  Spring-time  at  this  twilight  hour 
Comes  through  the  gathering  glooms, 

And  bears  the  stolen  sweets  of  many  a  flower 
Into  my  silent  rooms. 

Where  hast  thou  wandered,  gentle  gale,  to  find 

/The  perfumes  thou  dost  bring  ? 

By  brooks,  that  through  the  wakening  meadows  wind, 
Or  brink  of  rushy  spring  ? 

Or  woodside,  where,  in  little  companies, 

The  early  wild-flowers  rise, 
Or  sheltered  lawn,  where,  'mid  encircling  trees, 

May's  warmest  sunshine  lies  ? 

Now  sleeps  the  humming-bird,  that,  in  the  sun, 

Wandered  from  bloom  to  bloom ; 
Now,  too,  the  weary  bee,  his  day's  work  done, 

Rests  in  his  waxen  room. 

Now  every  hovering  insect  to  his  place 

Beneath  the  leaves  hath  flown  ; 
And,  through  the  long-night  hours,  the  flowery  race 

Are  left  to  thee  alone. 

O'er  the  pale  blossoms  of  the  sassafras 

And  o'er  the  spice-bush  spray, 
Among  the  opening  buds,  thy  breathings  pass, 

And  come  embalmed  away. 


MAY  E  YEN  ING.  3  7  5 

Yet  there  is  sadness  in  thy  soft  caress, 

Wind  of  the  blooming  year  ! 
The  gentle  presence,  that  was  wont  to  bless 

Thy  coming,  is  not  here. 

Go,  then  ;  and  yet  I  bid  thee  not  repair, 

Thy  gathered  sweets  to  shed, 
Where  pine  and  willow,  in  the  evening  air, 

Sigh  o'er  the  buried  dead. 

Pass  on  to  homes  where  cheerful  voices  sound, 

And  cheerful  looks  are  cast, 
And  where  thou  wakest,  in  thine  airy  round, 

No  sorrow  of  the  past. 

Refresh  the  languid  student  pausing  o'er 

The  learned  page  apart, 
And  he  shall  turn  to  con  his  task  once  more 

With  an  encouraged  heart. 

Bear  thou  a  promise,  from  the  fragrant  sward, 

To  him  who  tills  the  land, 
Of  springing  harvests  that  shall  yet  reward 

The  labors  of  his  hand. 

And  whisper,  everywhere,  that  Earth  renews 

Pier  beautiful  array, 
Amid  the  darkness  and  the  gathering  dews, 

For  the  return  of  day. 


NOTES. 


Page  ii. 

PO2.M   OF   THE   AGES. 

IN  this  poem,  written  and  first  printed  in  the  year  1821,  the  author  has  endeav 
ored,  from  a  survey  of  the  past  ages  of  the  world,  and  of  the  successive  advances 
of  mankind  in  knowledge,  virtue,  and  happiness,  to  justify  and  confirm  the  hopes 
of  the  philanthropist  for  the  future  destinies  of  the  human  race. 

Page  37. 
THE  BURIAL-PLACE. 

The  first  half  of  this  fragment  may  seem  to  the  reader  borrowed  from  the  essay 
on  Rural  Funerals  in  the  fourth  number  of  "  The  Sketch-book."  The  lines  were, 
however,  written  more  than  a  year  before  that  number  appeared.  The  poem,  un 
finished  as  it  is,  would  hardly  have  been  admitted  into  this  collection,  had  not  the 
author  been  unwilling  to  lose  what  had  the  honor  of  resembling  so  beautiful  a 
composition. 

Page  48. 

THE  MASSACRE  AT  SCIO. 

This  poem,  written  about  the  time  of  the  horrible  butchery  of  the  Sciotes  by 
the  Turks,  in  1824,  has  been  more  fortunate  than,  most  poetical  predictions.  The 
independence  of  the  Greek  nation  which  it  foretold,  has  come  to  pass,  and  the 
massacre,  by  inspiring  a  deeper  detestation  of  their  oppressors,  did  much  to  pro 
mote  that  event. 


ATOTES.  37? 

Page  49. 

Her  maiden  veil,  her  own  black  hair>  etc. 

"The  unmarried  females  have  a  modest  falling  down  of  the  hair  over  the 
eyes." — ELIOT. 

Page  70. 

MONUMENT  MOUNTAIN. 

The  mountain  called  by  this  name,  is  a  remarkable  precipice  in  Great  Barring- 
ton,  overlooking  the  rich  and  picturesque  valley  of  the  Housatonic,  in  the  western 
part  of  Massachusetts.  At  the  southern  extremity  is,  or  was  a  few  years  since,  a 
conical  pile  of  small  stones,  erected,  according  to  the  tradition  of  the  surrounding 
country,  by  the  Indians,  in  memory  of  a  woman  of  the  Stockbridge  tribe  who 
killed  herself  by  leaping  from  the  edge  of  the  precipice.  Until  within  a  few  years 
past,  small  parties  of  that  tribe  used  to  arrive  from  their  settlement  in  the  western 
part  of  the  State  of  New  York,  on  visits  to  Stockbridge,  the  place  of  their  nativity 
and  former  residence.  A  young  woman  belonging  to  one  of  these  parties  related, 
to  a  friend  of  the  author,  the  story  on  which  the  poem  of  Monument  Mountain  is 
founded.  An  Indian  girl  had  formed  an  attachment  for  her  cousin,  which,  accord 
ing  to  the  customs  of  the  tribe,  was  unlawful.  She  was,  in  consequence,  seized 
with  a  deep  melancholy,  and  resolved  to  destroy  herself.  In  company  with  a 
female  friend,  she  repaired  to  the  mountain,  decked  out  for  the  occasion  in  all  her 
ornaments,  and,  after  passing  the  day  on  the  summit  in  singing  with  her  compan 
ion  the  traditional  songs  of  her  nation,  she  threw  herself  headlong  from  the  rock, 
and  was  killed. 

Page  82. 

THE  MURDERED  TRAVELLER. 

Some  years  since,  in  the  month  of  May,  the  remains  of  a  human  body,  partly 
devoured  by  wild  animals,  were  found  in  a  woody  ravine,  near  a  solitary  road 
passing  between  the  mountains  west  of  the  village  of  Stockbridge.  It  was  sup 
posed  that  the  person  came  to  his  death  by  violence,  but  no  traces  could  be  dis 
covered  of  his  murderers.  It  was  only  recollected  that  one  evening,  in  the  course 
of  the  previous  winter,  a  traveller  had  stopped  at  an  inn  in  the  village  of  West 
Stockbridge ;  that  he  had  inquired  the  way  to  Stockbridge ;  and  that,  in  paying 
the  innkeeper  for  something  he  had  ordered,  it  appeared  that  he  had  a  consider 
able  sum  of  money  in  his  possession.  Two  ill-looking  men  were  present,  and 
went  out  about  the  same  time  that  the  traveller  proceeded  on  his  journey.  During 


378  NOTES. 

the  winter,  also,  two  men  of  shabby  appearance,  but  plentifully  supplied  with 
money,  had  lingered  for  a  while  about  the  village  of  Stockbridge.  Several  years 
afterward,  a  criminal,  about  to  be  executed  for  a  capital  offence  in  Canada,  con 
fessed  that  he  had  been  concerned  in  murdering  a  traveller  in  Stockbridge  for  tho 
sake  of  his  money.  Nothing  was  ever  discovered  respecting  the  name  or  resi 
dence  of  the  person  murdered. 

Page  114. 
Chained  in  the  marketplace  he  stood,  etc. 

The  story  of  the  African  chief,  related  in  this  ballad,  may  be  found  in  the 
African  Repository  for  April,  1825.  The  subject  of  it  was  a  warrior  of  majestic 
stature,  the  brother  of  Yarradee,  king  of  the  Solima  nation.  He  had  been  taken 
in  battle,  and  was  brought  in  chains  for  sale  to  the  Rio  Pongas,  where  he  was  ex 
hibited  in  the  market-place,  his  ankles  still  adorned  with  the  massy  rings  of  gold 
which  he  wore  when  captured.  The  refusal  of  his  captors  to  listen  to  his  offers 
of  ransom  drove  him  mad,  and  he  died  a  maniac. 

Page  125. 

THE  CONJUNCTION  OF  JUPITER  AND  VENUS. 

This  conjunction  was  said  in  the  common  calendars  to  have  taken  place  on  the 
2d  of  August,  1826.  This,  I  believe,  was  an  error,  but  the  apparent  approach  of 
the  planets  was  sufficiently  near  for  poetical  purposes. 

Page  131. 

THE  HURRICANE. 

This  poem  is  nearly  a  translation  from  one  by  Jos6  Maria  de  Heredia,  a  native 
of  the  island  of  Cuba,  who  published  at  New  York,  about  the  year  1825,  a  volume 
of  poems  in  the  Spanish  language. 

Page  133. 

WILLIAM   TELL. 

Neither  this,  nor  any  of  the  other  sonnets  in  the  collection,  with  the  exception 
of  the  one  from  the  Portuguese,  is  framed  according  to  the  legitimate  Italian  model, 
which,  in  the  author's  opinion,  possesses  no  peculiar  beauty  for  an  ear  accustomed 
only  to  the  metrical  forms  of  our  own  language.  The  sonnets  in  this  collection 
are  rather  poems  in  fourteen  lines  than  sonnets. 


NOTES.  379 

Page  134. 
The  slim  papaya  ripens,  etc. 

Papaya — papaw,  custard-apple.  Flint,  in  his  excellent  work  on  the  Geogra 
phy  and  History  of  the  Western  States,  thus  describes  this  tree  and  its  fruit : 

"A  papaw-shrub  hanging  full  of  fruits,  of  a  size  and  weight  so  disproportion  cd 
to  the  stem,  and  from  under  long  and  rich-looking  leaves,  of  the  same  yellow  with 
the  ripened  fruit,  and  of  an  African  luxuriance  of  growth,  is  to  us  one  of  the  rich 
est  spectacles  that  we  have  ever  contemplated  in  the  array  of  the  woods.  The 
fruit, contains  from  two  to  six  seeds  like  those  of  the  tamarind,  except  that  they  are 
doub'le  the  size.  The  pulp  of  the  fruit  resembles  egg-custard  in  consistence  and 
appearance.  It  has  the  same  creamy  feeling  in  the  mouth,  and  unites  the  taste 
of  eggs,  cream,  sugar,  and  spice.  It  is  a  natural  custard,  too  luscious  for  the  rel 
ish  of  most  people." 

Chateaubriand,  in  his  Travels,  speaks  disparagingly  of  the  fruit  of  the  papaw ; 
but  on  the  authority  of  Mr.  Flint,  who  must  know  more  of  the  matter,  I  have 
ventured  to  make  my  Western  lover  enumerate  it  among  the  delicacies  of  the  wil 
derness. 

Page  147. 
The  surface  rolls  and  fluctuates  to  the  eye. 

The  prairies  of  the  West,  with  an  undulating  surface,  rolling  prairies,  as  they 
are  called,  present  to  the  unaccustomed  eye  a  singular  spectacle  when  the  shadows 
of  the  clouds  are  passing  rapidly  over  them.  The  face  of  the  ground  seems  to 
fluctuate  and  toss  like  billows  of  the  sea. 


Page  147. 

The  prairie-haivk  that,  poised  on  high, 
Flaps  his  broad  wings,  yet  moves  not. 

I  have  seen  the  prairie-hawk  balancing  himself  in  the  air  for  hours  together, 
apparently  over  the  same  spot ;  probably  watching  his  prey. 


Page  148. 

These  ample  fields 
Nourished  their  harvests. 

The  size  and  extent  of  the  mounds  in  the  valley  of  the  Mississippi  indicate  the 
existence,  at  a  remote  period,  of  a  nation  at  once  populous  and  laborious,  and  there 
fore  probably  subsisting  by  agriculture. 


78  o  NOTES. 


Page  149. 

The  rude  conquerors 
Seated  the  captive  with  their  chiefs. 

Instances  are  not  wanting  of  generosity  like  this  among  the  North  American 
Indians  toward  a  captive  or  survivor  of  a  hostile  tribe  on  which  the  greatest  cruel 
ties  had  been  exercised. 

Page  151. 
SONG  OF  MARION'S  MEN. 

The  exploits  of  General  Francis  Marion,  the  famous  partisan  warrior  of  South 
Carolina,  form  an  interesting  chapter  in  the  annals  of  the  American  Revolution. 
The  British  troops  were  so  harassed  by  the  irregular  and  successful  warfare  which 
he  kept  up  at  the  head  of  a  few  daring  followers,  that  they  sent  an  officer  to  remon 
strate  with  him  for  not  coming  into  the  open  field  and  fighting  "  like  a  gentleman 
and  a  Christian." 

Page  158. 

MARY  MAGDALEN. 

Several  learned  divines,  with  much  appearance  of  reason,  in  particular  Dr. 
Lardner,  have  maintained  that  the  common  notion  respecting  the  dissolute  life  of 
Mary  Magdalen  is  erroneous,  and  that  she  was  always  a  person  of  excellent  char 
acter.  Charles  Taylor,  the  editor  of  "  Calmet's  Dictionary  of  the  Bible,"  takes 
the  same  view  of  the  subject. 

The  verses  of  the  Spanish  poet  here  translated  refer  to  the  "  woman  who  had 
been  a  sinner,"  mentioned  in  the  seventh  chapter  of  St.  Luke's  Gospel,  and  who 
is  commonly  confounded  with  Mary  Magdalen. 


Page  1 60. 

FATIMA  AND  RADUAN. 

This  and  the  following  poems  belong  to  that  class  oi  ancient  Spanish  ballads, 
by  unknown  authors,  called  Romances  Motiscos— Moriscan  Romances  or  ballads. 
They  were  composed  in  the  fourteenth  century,  some  of  them,  probably,  by  the 
Moors,  who  then  lived  intermingled  with  the  Christians ;  and  they  relate  the  loves 
and  achievements  of  the  knights  of  Granada. 


NOTES.  3g! 

Page  162. 

LOVE  AND  FOLLY. — (FROM  LA  FONTAINE.) 

This  is  rather  an  imitation  than  a  translation  of  the  poem  of  the  graceful  French 
fabulist 

Page  165. 
These  eyes  shall  not  recall  thec,  etc. 

This  is  the  very  expression  of  the  original — No  te  llamardn  mis  ojos,  etc. 
The  Spanish  poets  early  adopted  the  practice  of  calling  a  lady  by  the  name  of  the 
most  expressive  feature  of  her  countenance,  her  eyes.  The  lover  styled  his  mis 
tress  "ojos  bellos,"  beautiful  eyes;  "ojos  serenos,"  serene  eyes.  Green  eyes 
seem  to  have  been  anciently  thought  a  great  beauty  in  Spain,  and  there  is  a  very 
pretty  ballad  by  an  absent  lover,  in  which  he  addressed  his  lady  by  the  title  of 
"green  eyes;  "  supplicating  that  he  may  remain  in  her  remembrance : 

"  j  Ay  ojuelos  verdes ! 
Ay  los  mis  ojuelos! 
Ay,  hagan  los  cielos 
Que  de  mi  te  acuerdes ! " 

Page  167. 

Say,  Love— for  didst  thou  see  her  tears,  etc. 
The  stanza  beginning  with  this  line  stands  thus  in  the  original ; 

"Dilo  tu,  amor,  si  lo  viste ; 

i  Mas  ay  !  que  de  lastimado 
Diste  otro  nudo  a  la  venda, 
Para  no  ver  lo  que  ha  pasado." 

I  am  sorry  to  find  so  poor  a  conceit  deforming  so  spirited  a  composition  as  this 
old  ballad,  but  I  have  preserved  it  in  the  version.  It  is  one  of  those  extravagances 
which  afterward  became  so  common  in  Spanish  poetry,  when  Gongora  introduced 
the  estilo  culto,  as  it  was  called. 

Page  168. 

LOVE  IN  THE  AGE  OF  CHIVALRY. 

This  personification  of  the  passion  of  Love,  by  Peyre  Vidal,  has  been  referred 
to  as  a  proof  of  how  little  the  Provencal  poets  were  indebted  to  the  authors  of 
Greece  and  Rome  for  the  imagery  of  their  poems. 


382  NOTES. 

Page  169. 

THE  LOVE  OF  GOD.— (FROM  THE  PROVENCAL  OF  BERNARD  RASCAS.) 

The  original  of  these  lines  is  thus  given  by  John  of  Nostradamus,  in  his  Lives 
of  the  Troubadours,  in  a  barbarous  Frenchified  orthography : 

"  Touta  kausa  mortala  una  fes  perira, 
Fors  que  1'amour  de  Dieu,  que  tousiours  durar3. 
Tous  nostres  cors  vendran  essuchs,  come  fa  1'eska, 
Lous  Aubres  leyssaran  lour  verdour  tendra  e  fresca, 
Lous  Ausselets  del  bosc  perdran  lour  kant  subtyeu, 
E  non  s'auzira  plus  lou  Rossignol  gentyeu. 
Lous  Buols  al  Pastourgage,  e  las  blankas  fedettas 
Sent' ran  lous  agulhons  de  las  mortals  Sagettas, 
Lous  crestas  d' Aries  fiers,  Renards,  e  Loups  espars 
Kabrols,  Cervys,  Chamous,  Senglars  de  toutes  pars, 
Lous  Ours  hardys  e  forts,  seran  poudra,  e  Arena. 
Lou  Daulphin  en  la  Mar,  lou  Ton,  e  la  Balena, 
Monstres  impetuous,  Ryaumes,  e  Comtas, 
Lous  Princes,  e  lous  Reys,  seran  per  mort  domtas. 
E  nota  ben  eysso  kascun :  la  Terra  granda, 
(Ou  1'Escritura  ment)  lou  fermament  que  branda, 
Prendra  autra  figura.     Enfin  tout  perira, 
Fors  que  1'Amour  de  Dieu,  que  touiours  durara." 


Page  170. 

FROM   THE  SPANISH  OF  PEDRO  DE  CASTRO  Y  ANAYA. 

Las  Auroras  de  Diana,  in  which  the  original  of  these  lines  is  contained,  is, 
notwithstanding  it  was  praised  by  Lope  de  Vega,  one  of  the  worst  of  the  old  Span 
ish  Romances,  being  a  tissue  of  riddles  and  affecta.ions,  with  now  and  then  a  little 
poem  of  considerable  beauty. 

Page  183. 

EARTH. 

The  author  began  this  poem  in  rhyme.  The  following  is  the  first  draught  of 
it  as  far  as  he  proceeded,  in  a  stanza  which  he  found  it  convenient  to  abandon : 

A  midnight  black  with  clouds  is  on  the  sky ; 

A  shadow  like  the  first  original  night 
Folds  in,  and  seems  to  press  me  as  I  lie  ; 

No  image  meets  the  vainly  wandering  sight, 
And  shot  through  rolling  mists  no  starlight  gleam 
Glances  on  glassy  pool  or  rippling  stream. 


NOTES 


No  ruddy  bj^ze,  from  dwellings  bright  within, 

Tinges  the  flowering  summits  of  the  grass ; 
No  sound  of  life  is  heard,  no  village  din, 

Wings  rustling  overhead  or  steps  that  pass, 
While,  on  the  breast  of  Earth  at  random  thrown, 
I  listen  to  her  mighty  voice  alone. 

A  voice  of  many  tones  :  deep  murmurs  sent 

From  waters  that  in  darkness  glide  away, 
From  woods  unseen  by  sweeping  breezes  bent, 

From  rocky  chasms  where  darkness  dwells  all  day, 
And  hollows  of  the  invisible  hills  around, 
Blent  in  one  ceaseless,  melancholy  sound. 

0  Earth  !  dost  thou,  too,  sorrow  for  the  past  ? 
Mourn'st  thou  thy  childhood's  unreturning  hours, 

Thy  springs,  that  briefly  bloomed  and  faded  fast, 

The  gentle  generations  of  thy  flowers, 
Thy  forests  of  the  elder  time,  decayed 
And  gone  with  all  the  tribes  that  loved  their  shade  ? 

Mourn'st  thou  that  first  fair  time  so  early  lost, 

The  golden  age  that  lives  in  poets'  strains, 
Ere  hail  or  lightning,  whirlwind,  flood,  or  frost 

Scathed  thy  green  breast,  or  earthquakes  whelmed  thy  plains, 
Ere  blood  upon  the  shuddering  ground  was  spilt, 
Or  night  was  haunted  by  disease  and  guilt? 

Or  haply  dost  thou  grieve  for  those  who  die  ?        £ 

For  living  things  that  trod  a  while  thy  face, 
The  love  of  thee  and  heaven,  and  now  they  lie 

Mixed  with  the  shapeless  dust  the  wild  winds  chase  ? 
I,  too,  must  grieve,  for  never  on  thy  sphere 
Shall  those  bright  forms  and  faces  reappear. 

Ha !  with  a  deeper  and  more  thrilling  tone, 

Rises  that  voice  around  me :   'tis  the  cry 
Of  Earth  for  guilt  and  wrong,  the  eternal  moan 

Sent  to  the  listening  and  long-suffering  sky, 

1  hear  and  tremble,  and  my  heart  grows  faint, 
As  midst  the  night  goes  up  that  great  complaint. 


Page  198. 

Where  lsar*s  clay-white  rivulets  run 
Through  the  dark  woods,  like  frighted  deer. 

Close  to  the  city  of  Munich,  in  Bavaria,  lies  the  spacious  and  beautiful  pleas 
ure-ground,  called  the  English  Garden,  in  which  these  lines  were  written,  origi 
nally  projected  and  laid  out  by  our  countryman,  Count  Rumford,  under  the  au 
spices  of  one  of  the  sovereigns  of  the  counlry.  Winding  walks,  of  great  extent, 


3*4 


NOTES. 


pass  through  close  thickets  and  groves  interspersed  \\jjth  lawns ;  and  streams,  di 
verted  from  the  river  Isar,  traverse  the  grounds  swiftly  in  various  directions,  the 
water  of  which,  stained  with  the  clay  of  the  soil  it  has  corroded  in  its  descent  from 
the  upper  country,  is  frequently  of  a  tuibid-white  color. 


Page  203. 

THE  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  BOYS. 

This  song  refers  to  the  expedition  of  the  Vermonters,  commanded  by  Ethan 
Allen,  by  whom  the  British  fort  of  Ticonderoga,  on  Lake  Champlain,  was  sur 
prised  and  taken,  in  May,  1775. 

Page  205. 
THE  CHILD'S  FUNERAL. 

The  incident  on  which  this  poem  is  founded  was  related  to  the  author  while  in 
Europe,  in  a  letter  from  an  English  lady.  A  child  died  in  the  south  of  Italy,  and 
when  they  went  to  bury  it  they  found  it  revived  and  playing  with  the  flowers 
which,  after  the  manner  of  that  country,  had  been  brought  to  grace  his  funeral. 


Page  210. 
'Tts  said  when  Schiller  s  death  drew  nigh, 


To  "wander  forth  wherever  lie 

The  homes  and  haunts  of  human  kind. 

Shortly  before  the  death  of  Schiller,  he  was  seized  with  a  strong  desire  to 
travel  in  foreign  countries,  as  if  his  spirit  had  a  presentiment  of  its  approaching 
enlargement,  and  already  longed  to  expatiate  in  a  wider  and  more  varied  sphere 
of  existence. 

Page  212. 

The  flower 

Of  sanguinaria,  from  whose  brittle  stem 
The  red  drops  fdl  like  blood. 

The  Sanguinaria  Canadensis,  or  blood-root,  as  it  is  commonly  called,  bears  a 
delicate  white  flower  of  a  musky  scent,  the  stem  of  which  breaks  easily,  and  distils 
a  juice  of  a  bright-red  color. 


NOTES. 


385 


Page  218. 

The  shad-lush,  -white  with  flowers, 
Brightened  the  glens. 

The  small  tree,  named  by  the  botanists  Aronia  Botyrapium,  is  called,  in  some 
parts  of  our  country,  the  shad-bush,  from  the  circumstance  that  it  flowers  about 
the  time  that  the  shad  ascend  the  rivers  in  early  spring.  Its  delicate  sprays,  cov 
ered  with  white  blossoms  before  the  trees  are  yet  in  leaf,  have  a  singularly  beauti 
ful  appearance  in  the  woods. 

Page  219. 

'*  There  hast  thou"  said  my  friend,  "  a  fitting  type 
Of  human  life" 

I  remember  hearing  an  aged  man,  in  the  country,  compare  the  slow  movement 
of  time  in  early  life  and  its  swift  flight  as  it  approaches  old  age,  to  the  drumming 
of  a  partridge  or  ruffed  grouse  in  the  woods — the  strokes  falling  slow  and  distinct 
at  first,  and  following  each  other  more  and  more  rapidly,  till  they  end  at  last  in  a 
whirring  sound. 

Page  221. 

AN  EVENING  REVERY. — FROM  AN  UNFINISHED   POEM. 

This  poem  and  that  entitled  "The  Fountain,"  with  one  or  two  others  in  blank 
verse,  were  intended  by  the  author  as  portions  of  a  larger  poem,  in  which  they 
may  hereafter  take  their  place. 

Page  224. 

The  fresh  savannas  of  the  Sangamon 
Here  rise  in  gentle  swells,  and  the  long  grass 
Is  mixed  with  rustling  hazels.     Scarlet  tufts 
A  re  glowing  in  the  green,  like  flakes  ofjire. 

The  Painted  Cup,  Euchroma  coccinea,  or  Bartsia,  coccinea,  grows  in  great 
abundance  in  the  hazel  prairies  of  the  Western  States,  where  its  scarlet  tufts  make 
a  brilliant  appearance  in  the  midst  of  the  verdure.  The  Sangamon  is  a  beautiful 
river,  tributary  to  the  Illinois,  bordered  with  rich  prairies. 

Page  233. 

The  long  wa-ve  rolling  from  the  southern  pole 
To  break  upon  Japan. 

"  Creaks  the  long  wave  that  at  the  pole  began."— TENNENT'S  A  nster  Fair. 

33 


NOTES. 


Page  234. 

A  t  norm  the  Hebrew  bowed  the  knee 
A  nd  worshipped, 

"  Evening  and  morning,  and  at  noon,  will  I  pray  and  cry  aloud,  and  he  shall 
hear  my  voice." — Psalm  Iv.  17. 


Page  238. 

THE   WHITE-FOOTED-DEER. 

"During  the  stay  of  Long's  Expedition  at  Engineer  Cantonment,  three  speci 
mens  of  a  variety  of  the  common  deer  were  brought  in,  having  all  the  feet  white 
near  the  hoofs,  and  extending  to  those  on  the  hind-feet  from  a  little  above  the 
spurious  hoofs.  This  white  extremity  was  divided,  upon  the  sides  of  the  foot,  by 
the  general  color  of  the  leg,  which  extends  down  near  to  the  hoofs,  leaving  a 
white  triangle  in  front,  of  which  the  point  was  elevated  rather  higher  than  the 
spurious  hoofs." — GODMAN'S  Natural  History,  vol.  ii.,  p.  314. 


Page  270. 
THE  LOST  BIRD. 

Readers  who  are  acquainted  with  the  Spanish  language,  may  not  be  displeased 
at  seeing  the  original  of  this  little  poem : 

EL  PAJARO   PERDIDO. 

Huy6  con  vuelo  incierto, 

Y  de  mis  ojos  ha  desparecido. 
Mirad,  si,  a  vuestro  huerto, 

Mi  pajaro  querido,  . 

Ninas  hermosas,  por  acaso  ha  huido. 

Sus  ojos  relucientes 

Son  como  los  del  aguila  orgullosa ; 

Plumas  resplandeci'Mites, 
En  la  cabeza  arrosa, 
Lleva;  y  su  voz  es  tierna  y  armoniosa. 

Mirad,  si  culdadoso 

Junto  &  las  flores  se  escondio  en  la  grama. 
Ese  laurel  frondoso 

Miir.  1,  rama  por  rama, 

Que  el  los  laurcles  y  los  flores  ama. 


NOTES.  3S7 

Si  Ic  hallais,  por  ventura, 

No  os  enamore  su  amoror.o  accnto  ; 
No  os  prende  su  hermosura; 

Volvedmele  al  momenta; 

O  dejadle,  si  no,  libre  en  el  viento. 

Por  que  su  pico  de  oro 

Solo  en  mi  mano  toma  la  semilla; 
Y  no  enjugare  el  lloro 

Que  veis  en  mi  mejilla, 

Hasta  encontrar  mi  profugo  avecilla. 

Mi  vista  se  oscurece, 

Si  sus  ojos  no  ve,  que  son  mi  c!ia 
Mi  anima  desfallece 

Con  la  melancolia 

De  no  escucharle  ya  su  melodia. 

The  literature  of  Spain  at  the  present  day  has  this  peculiarity,  that  female 
writers  have,  in  considerable  number,  entered  into  competition  with  the  other  sex. 
One  of  the  most  remarkable  of  these,  as  a  writer  of  both  prose  and  poetry,  is  Car 
olina  Coronado  de  Perry,  the  author  of  the  little  poem  here  given.  The  poetical 
literature  of  Spain  has  felt  the  influence  of  the  female  mind  in  the  infusion  of  a 
certain  delicacy  and  tenderness,  and  the  more  frequent  choice  of  subjects  which 
interest  the  domestic  affections.  Concerning  the  verses  of  the  lady  already  men 
tioned,  Don  Juan  Eugenio  Hartzenbusch,  one  of  the  most  accomplished  Spanish 
critics  of  the  present  day,  and  himself  a  successful  dramatic  writer,  says : 

"If  Carolina  Coronado  had,  through  modesty,  sent  her  productions  from  Es- 
tremadura  to  Madrid  under  the  name  of  a  person  of  the  other  sex,  it  would  still 
have  been  difficult  for  intelligent  readers  to  persuade  themselves  that  they  were 
written  by  a  man,  or  at  least,  considering  their  graceful  sweetness,  purity  of  tone, 
simplicity  of  conception,  brevity  of  development,  and  delicate  and  particular  choice 
of  subject,  we  should  be  constrained  to  attribute  them  to  one  yet  in  his  early 
youth,  whom  the  imagination  would  represent  as  ingenuous,  innocent,  and  gay, 
who  had  scarce  ever  wandered  beyond  the  flowery  grove  or  pleasant  valley  where 
his  cradle  was  rocked,  and  where  he  has  been  lulled  to  sleep  by  the  sweetest  songs 
of  Francisca  de  la  Torre,  Garcilaso,  and  Melendez." 

The  author  of  the  Pajaro  Perdido,  according  to  a  memoir  of  her  by  Angel 
Fernandez  de  los  Rios,  was  born  at  Almendralejo,  in  Estremadura,  in  1823.  At 
the  age  of  nine  years  she  began  to  steal  from  sleep,  after  a  day  passed  in  various 
lessons,  and  in  domestic  occupations,  several  hours  every  night  to  read  the  poets 
of  her  country,  and  other  books  belonging  to  the  library  of  the  household,  among 
which  are  mentioned,  as  a  proof  of  her  vehement  love  of  reading,  the  "Critical 
History  of  Spain,"  by  the  Abbd  Masuden,  "and  other  works  equally  dry  and 
prolix."  She  was  afterward  sent  to  Badajoz,  where  she  received  the  best  educa 
tion  which  the  state  cf  the  country,  then  on  fire  with  a  civil  war,  would  admit. 


388 


NOTES. 


Here  the  intensity  of  her  application  to  her  studies  caused  a  severe  malady,  which 
has  frequently  recurred  in  after-life.  At  the  age  of  thirteen  years  she  wrote  a  poem 
entitled  La  Palma,  which  the  author  of  her  biography  declares  to' be  worthy  of 
Herrera,  and  which  led  Espronceda,  a  poet  of  Estremadura,  a  man  of  genius,  and 
the  author  of  several  translations  from  Byron,  whom  he  resembled  both  in  mental 
and  personal  characteristics,  to  address  her  an  eulogistic  sonnet.  In  1843,  when 
she  was  but  twenty  years  old,  a  volume  of  her  poems  was  published  at  Madrid, 
in  which  were  included  both  that  entitled  La  Palma  and  the  one  I  have  given  in 
this  note.  To  this  volume  Hartzenbusch,  in  his  admiration  for  her  genius,  pref 
aced  an  introduction. 

The  task  of  writing  verses  in  Spanish  is  not  difficult  Rhymes  are  readily 
found,  and  the  language  is  easily  moulded  into  metrical  forms.  Those  who  have 
distinguished  themselves  in  this  literature  have  generally  made  their  first  essays 
in  verse.  What  is  remarkable  enough,  the  men  who  afterward  figure  in  political 
life  mostly  begin  their  career  as  the  authors  of  madrigals.  A  poem  introduces  the 
future  statesman  to  the  public,  as  a  speech  at  a  popular  meeting  introduces  the 
candidate  for  political  distinction  in  this  country.  I  have  heard  of  but  one  of  the 
eminent  Spanish  politicians  of  the  present  time,  who  made  a  boast  that  he  was  in 
nocent  of  poetry,  and  if  all  that  his  enemies  say  of  him  be  true,  it  would  have 
been  well  both  for  his  country  and  his  own  fame,  if  he  had  been  equally  innocent 
of  corrupt  practices.  The  compositions  of  Carolina  Coronado,  even  her  earliest, 
do  not  deserve  to  be  classed  with  the  productions  of  which  I  have  spoken,  and 
which  are  simply  the  effect  of  inclination  and  facility.  They  possess  the  mens 
divintor. 

In  1852  a  collection  of  the  poems  of  Carolina  Coronado  was  brought  out  at 
Madrid,  including  those  which  were  first  published.  The  subjects  are  of  larger 
variety  than  those  which  prompted  her  earlier  productions;  some  of  them  are  of 
a  religious  cast,  others  refer  to  political  matters.  One  of  them,  which  appears 
among  the  "  Improvisations,"  is  an  energetic  protest  against  erecting  a  new  am 
phitheatre  for  bull-fights.  The  spirit  of  all  her  poetry  is  humane  and  friendly  to 
the  best  interests  of  mankind. 

Her  writings  in  prose  must  not  be  overlooked.  Among  them  is  a  novel  en 
titled  Sigea,  founded  on  the  adventures  of  Camoens;  another  entitled  Jarilla,  a 
beautiful  story,  full  of  pictures  of  rural  life  in  Estremadura,  which  deserves,  if  it 
could  find  a  competent  translator,  to  be  transferred  to  our  language.  Besides  - 
these  there  are  two  other  novels  from  her  pen,  Paquita  and  La  Luz  del  Tejo.  A 
few  years  since  appeared,  in  a  Madrid  periodical,  the  Semanario,  a  series  of  let 
ters  written  by  her,  giving  an  account  of  the  impressions  received  in  a  journey 
from  the  Tagus  to  the  Rhine,  including  a  visit  to  England.  Among  the  subjects 
on  which  she  has  written,  is  the  idea,  still  warmly  cherished  in  Spain,  of  uniting 
the  entire  peninsula  under  one  government.  In  an  ably-conducted  journal  of 


NOTES. 


389 


Madrid,  she  has  given  accounts  of  the  poetesses  of  Spain,  her  contemporaries, 
with  extracts  from  their  writings,  and  a  kindly  estimate  of  their  respective  merits. 

Her  biographer  speaks  of  her  activity  and  efficiency  in.  charitable  enterprises, 
her  interest  in  the  cause  of  education,  her  visits  to  the  primary  schools  of  Madrid, 
encouraging  and  rewarding  the  pupils,  and  her  patronage  of  the  escuela  de  far- 
•vulos,  or  infant  school  at  Badajoz,  established  by  a  society  in  that  city,  with  the 
design  of  improving  the  education  of  the  laboring  class. 

It  must  have  been  not  long  after  the  publication  of  her  poems,  in  1852,  that 
Carolina  Coronado  became  the  wife  of  an  American  gentleman,  Mr.  Horatio  J. 
Perry,  at  one  time  our  Secretary  of  Legation  at  the  Court  of  Madrid,  afterward 
our  Chargt ' de  Affaires,  and  now,  in  1863,  again  Secretary  of  Legation.  Amid 
the  duties  of  a  wife  and  mother,  which  she  fulfils  with  exemplary  fidelity  and 
grace,  she  has  not  either  forgotten  nor  forsaken  the  literary  pursuits  which  have 
given  her  so  high  a  reputation. 

»  Page  295. 

THE  RUINS  OF  ITALICA. 

The  poems  of  the  Spanish  author,  Francisco  de  Rioja,  who  lived  in  the  first 
half  of  the  seventeenth  century,  are  few  in  number,  but  much  esteemed.  His  ode 
on  the  Ruins  of  Italica  is  one  of  the  most  admired  of  these,  but  in  the  only  col 
lection  of  his  poems  which  I  have  seen,  it  is  said  that  the  concluding  stanza,  in 
the  original  copy,  was  deemed  so  little  worthy  of  the  rest  that  it  was  purposely 
omitted  in  the  publication.  Italica  was  a  city  founded  by  the  Romans  in  the 
south  of  Spain,  the  remains  of  which  are  still  an  object  of  interest 


Page  308. 
SELLA. 

Sella  is  the  name  given  by  the  Vulgate  to  one  of  the  wives  of  Lamech,  men 
tioned  in  the  fourth  chapter  of  the  Book  of  Genesis,  and  called  Zillah  in  the  com 
mon  English  version  of  the  Bible. 

Page  323. 
HOMER'S  ODYSSEY,  BOOK  v.,  TRANSLATED. 

It  may  be  esteemed  presumptuous  in  the  author  of  this  volume  to  attempt  a 
translation  of  any  part  of  Homer  in  blank  verse  after  that  of  Cowper.  It  has 
always  seemed  to  him,  however,  that  Cowper's  version  had  very  great  defects. 


39° 


NOTES. 


The  style  of  Homer  is  simple,  and  he  has  been  praised  for  fire  and  rapidity  of 
narrative.  Does  anybody  find  these  qualities  in  Covvper's  Homer  ?  If  Cowpcr 
had  rendered  him  into  such  English  as  he  employed  in  his  "  Task,"  there  would 
be  no  reason  to  complain;  but  in  translating  Homer  he  seems  to  have  thought  it 
necessary  to  use  a  different  style  from  that  of  his  original  works.  Almost  every 
sentence  is  stiffened  by  some  clumsy  inversion ;  stately  phrases  are  used  when 
simpler  ones  were  at  hand,  and  would  have  rendered  the  meaning  of  the  original 
better.  The  entire  version  has  the  appearance  of  being  hammered  out  with  great 
labor,  and  as  a  whole  it  is  cold  and  constrained ;  scarce  any  thing  seems  spontane 
ous  ;  it  is  only  now  and  then  that  the  translator  has  caught  the  fervor  of  his  au 
thor.  Homer,  of  course,  wrote  in  idiomatic  Greek,  and,  in  order  to  produce 
either  a  true  copy  of  the  original,  or  an  agreeable  poem,  should  have  been  trans 
lated  into  idiomatic  English.. 

I  am  almost  ashamed,  after  this  censure  of  an  author,  whom,  in  the  main,  I 
admire  as  much  as  I  do  Cowper,  to  refer  to  my  own  translation  of  the  Fifth  Book 
of  the  Odyssey.  I  desire  barely  to  say  that  I  have  endeavored  to  give  the  verses 
of  the  old  Greek  poet  at  bast  a  simpler  presentation  in  English,  and  one  more 
conformable  to  the  genius  of  our  language. 

Page  361. 
The  mock-grace's  blood-red  banner,  etc. 

Ampelopls,  mock-grape.  I  have  here  literally  translated  the  botanical  name  of 
the  Virginia  creeper — an  appellation  too  cumbrous  for  verse. 

Page  367. 
A  BRIGHTER  DAY. 

This  poem  was  written  shortly  after  the  author's  return  from  a  visit  to  Spain, 
and  more  than  a  twelvemonth  before  the'overthrow  of  the  tyrannical  government 
of  Queen  Isabella  and  the  expulsion  of  the  Bourbons.  It  is  not  "from  the  Span 
ish"  in  the  ordinary  sense  of  the  phrase,  but  is  an  attempt  to  put  into  a  poetic 
form  sentiments  and  hopes  which  the  author  frequently  heard,  during  his  visit  to 
Spain,  from  the  lips  of  the  natives.  We  are  yet  to  see  whether  these  expectations 
of  an  enlightened  government  and  national  liberty  are  to  become  a  reality  under 
the  new  order  of  things. 

THE     END. 


